


A New Addition to the Order

by HLine



Series: Templar Connor [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: And Kenway Family Feels, And then Terror, But mostly Cuteness, F/M, Gen, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:17:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HLine/pseuds/HLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started in the burned out husk of an Indian village. Haytham finds himself thrust into the bewildering world of fatherhood, on top of running the Templar Colonial Rite and trying to stamp out the Assassin's Brotherhood. But just as he starts to warm up to the idea, a parent's worst nightmare strikes, testing him in ways he had never been tested before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Promise

Haytham took his coat and cloak off, carefully folding each piece of clothing before placing it on the only chair in the tiny room. The inn that he was staying in stank of cheap ale and sweat, its only rooms being tiny and clearly more for the other customers of the barmaids than for actual guests, being furnished only with a small, dingy-looking bed, a desk, and a rickety, high-backed chair. Still, it was the only inn for miles around, and would have to do for the night.

A sniffle from behind him reminded him of the other reason he was displeased with the state of the shack he was being forced to spend the night in.

Turning around, he saw that the little native boy (his son) was still standing just inside the doorway, exactly where he had put him down after carrying him up the narrow, squeaking stairs. Sniffing again, the boy wiped at his nose with a bandaged hand. The other hand was clutching an intricately detailed blue blanket around his shoulders that he had gotten from his tribe's Clan Mother before he left.

Haytham sighed through his nose and sat down on the bed. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other.

Tracing his eyes over the boy's face, he could already see how he and Ziio's features had mixed together, despite the roundness of youth. His lips and nose, with her eyes peering back at him. Her freckles dusting his cheeks. The perfect mix of him and Ziio in one little body.

Clearing his throat, he patted the rough sheets beside him. "Come here, child," he said as kindly as he could.

The boy didn't move. His shoulder's lifted until the blanket was bunched around his ears and muttered something.

Haytham mentally groaned; he would have to teach the boy to speak properly. He leaned forward.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said my name isn't child. It's Ratonhnhaké:ton," the boy said, looking up at him from beneath his eyebrows with a defiant gleam in his eyes.

"Ratoon-"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"

Haytham closed his eyes, took another deep breath in through his nose and, for just a moment, wished that the boy (his son) was still as docile as he had been when Haytham had first found him. Then he felt terrible, something that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

The boy had been like a doll, lying in the half-finished long houseby the lake that Ziio's people had taken shelter by. In the shadows around his eyes like bruises, in the corners of his mouth, grief trickled from his very being like a cracked pot, barely holding together. Beside him had been a large, muscular man holding a bowl of broth. As Haytham, curious and guided by the Clan Mother, had walked closer, the man had looked up and scowled.

Carefully, he had put the bowl down and stood up. Like the boy sitting at his feet, emotion leaked through every line of his body. In his case, though, it had been rage.

"What are you doing here, white man?" he had spat.

The Clan Mother had spoken sharply to him in their own language before sitting down beside the boy and gently shaking him, whispering in his ear. Slowly, the boy had looked up at him, standing uncomfortably with the eyes of the surviving natives boring into his back and making it itch.

For a moment, all had been still. Then the boy's face had twisted into a mask of pain, sorrow and rage and he had flung himself at Haytham, screaming.

It had taken the better part of the afternoon to calm the boy down, during which Haytham learned both that the boy was his son, and that Ziio had died in front of him, and that the boy had been asking why he hadn't been there to save his mother.

Opening his eyes, he reigned in his irritation and exhaustion. It had been a very long day of riding for the both of them, and the innkeeper had been an annoying tit about the boy.

"Son," he said, "I'm sorry, but I still can't pronounce your name. For now, though, how about you come sit down on the bed with me?"

The boy scowled and still didn't move, and just like that his temper snapped. Getting to his feet, he crossed the room in two steps and grabbed the boy by the shoulder before roughly dragging him towards the bed. The boy squeaked like a mouse and tried to squirm away. Snarling, Haytham dug his fingers into the boy's tender flesh and shook him once before crouching down and grasping his other shoulder, forcing him to face him.

"Now listen," he snapped, "it has been a very long day for the both of us, so I would advise you to not test my patience anymore tonight with your stubborness. Do you understand?"

The boy didn't answer. Haytham frowned.

"Understand?" he repeated.

Still the boy did not answer. He simply stared at him, his eyes wide and glazed over, staring into nothing. Had he inadvertently knocked the boy silly?

Then an acrid whiff reached his nose.

Slowly, Haytham looked down.

The boy had wet himself.

A soft whimper made him look back up. The boy's eyes were still wide and unseeing, looking at something only he could percieve. Concerned, Haytham lifted a hand to brush against the boy's cheek. He did not expect the reaction he got.

A sob ripped its way out of the boy's throat and tears began to pour down his face as he batted Haytham's hands away, stumbling backwards until his heel caught on a raised floorboard. He hit the floor bottom-first, still sobbing, and covered his face as his shoulders shook.

Haytham was at a loss. All he could do was stare at the boy.

Eventually, though, his brain began to work again, spitting out orders for his fumbling, paralyzed body to follow. First he briefly left and managed to secure a bucket filled with water and a rag. Next came cleaning the boy. His deerskin trousers were soaked with urine and took some wrangling to get off of him. A few wipes with a moistened rag cleaned the still-sobbing boy well enough, and Haytham quickly grabbed him underneath his armpits and onto the bed. Luckily, the boy's shirt was long enough to keep him decent.  
Wrinkling his nose, Haytham rinsed the trousers as well as he could and then set them to dry by the window. Mentally, he made a note to get up early and buy some proper colonist clothes for the boy. They, at least, would be guaranteed to be dry. Then he used the rest of the water and the rag to quickly wipe up the puddle that was still on the floor, rinsed his hands with some of the water from the jug on the desk, and set the bucket and cloth outside of the door.

Standing up straight, he sighed and looked at his hands. There wasn't any sign of dirt on them, but part of him still shuddered over the lack of soap available after cleaning that sort of mess up. At an inn like this, though, a quick rinse was probably as clean as he was going to get them.

"Sorry," came a quiet, hoarse whisper from behind him.

Looking behind him sharply, he saw that the boy had stopped crying, at least. Turning and stepping towards him, he stopped when the boy flinched and moved away from him, scrambling towards the opposite corner of the bed. His bronze legs flashed in candlelight.

"Sorry," the boy repeated. He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, giving a little cough and curling his knees up to his chest. "Was stupid and weak." Fresh tears brimmed at the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, to keep the boy from moving away, Haytham sat down on the corner of the bed. He had gone at this all wrong, he knew. Memories of how his father had acted around him rose up from the depths of his mind, and he knew that his father had never frightened him to the point of soiling himself.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

The boy peeked at him over his knees. "I forgot where I was," he said softly, "I thought-"

His voice cracked and cut out.

Haytham carefully kept his face still.

"You thought what?"

"I thought I was back before Ista died. When I met the bad man and his friends."

Haytham cocked an eyebrow.

"What bad men?"

The boy buried his face back into his knees. After a moment of silence, Haytham scooted a little closer, reaching out to lay a hand on his head. The sound of the boy's shaky, cracking voice stopped him.

"I was playing with my friends in the forest..."

 

* * *

 

_Ratonhnhake:ton shrieked as he was dragged from the pile of dead branches he was hiding in._

_"Well, well, lookie-here boys, we found a forest rat!" a harsh voice jeered._

_Ratonhnhake:ton could feel his ankle bruising underneath the large hand wrapped around his leg. Helplessly, he clawed at the ground as he was swung into the air upside down to stare at the group of men that was now surrounding him. Gulping down air, he tried to calm himself down and be brave. These were colonists, like in the stories the warriors had told him and Kanen during the winter. They enjoyed scaring people. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of his fear!_

_Despite his vow, a whimper bubbled up and escaped his lips at their cold gazes.Their harsh laughter at his panic echoed in his ears like the caws of crows. Looking around wildly, all the little boy could see were the strange clothes and weapons of colonists._

_"Let him down, Lynch," a high, cruel voice said, stabbing through the air, "we're supposed to be gathering information for the Major, remember?"_

_Looking around, Ratonhnhake:ton's eyes were drawn to the person who had just spoke. A small, pale face framed with dark hair stared back at him, the superior look on his face only enhanced by his strange different-coloured eyes. One was gold like a wolf's, the other the deep blue as cold as the lake in winter._

_More sniggering filled the air as Ratonhnhake:ton was dropped to the ground and despite himself, he let out a shout as he scraped up his arms. Rough fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him to his feet by his scalp, making him scream even louder as his arms were twisted in front of him and pulled up above his head._

_"Rat's squeakin' awful loud, innit?" a man said._

_"Mebbe we should shut it up," suggested another._

_Squinting and whimpering, Ratonhnhake:ton looked around with tear-filled eyes. The colonists' eyes glittered with amusement, even as they turned to comment to each other. There were five of them, all tall and strong looking. Two were standing together; one had a shaggy beard, his clothes dirty and rumpled, while the other was clean-shaven and wore a strange mixture of leathers and colonist cloth. Leaning on their guns, they snickered at the sight of Ratonhnhake:ton dangling from their friends hands. Another man stood tall and straight, bearded and wearing glasses, looking down at him as if he was deer droppings stuck on the bottom of his moccasin._

_Another yank at his scalp drew his attention to the fourth member of the group. He grinned down at him with big, blocky teeth surrounded by wormy-looking lips. The smile didn't reach his eyes._

_Cold, pale fingers dug into Ratonhnhake:ton's jaw, forcing him to focus on the fifth colonist. The pale face, belonging to a boy who couldn't be much older than him, made the boy's strange, mismatched eyes stand out as they bored into him._

_"Where is your village, savage?"_

_The coldness of the boy's voice felt like sharp pieces of ice were being forced into his ears, melting and then trickling down his spine. It took a moment for him to process the question._

_A moment that seemed to irritate the boy._

_"Carswell."_

_"Sir."_

_Pain exploded across the side of Ratonhnhake:ton's face. His eyesight blurred and his knees buckled, but the iron hand clamped around his wrists wouldn't let him fall._

_"Let me ask again," the boy said, crossing his arms, "Where. Is. Your. Village?"_

_The side of Ratonhnhake:ton's face was hot and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He tasted something metallic and salty. Looking up through watery eyes, he saw the glasses-wearing man that the boy had called Carswell flexing his hand and staring at him boredly._

_The boy sighed again and gestured to Lynch._

_The man behind Ratonhnhake:ton, who was holding his arms and hair, let go of his handful of hair and pulled. Ratonhnhake:ton gasped in pain as his feet left the ground. The bones in his wrists were grinding together, effortlessly held together in one of Lynch's hands. His shoulders were already aching from holding up all of his weight._

_In front of him, he saw the glasses-wearing man, Carswell, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. Whimpering, Ratonhnhake:ton twisted and kicked as hard as he could at Lynch._

_The man didn't even grunt._

_Then Carswell was walking forward and cracking his knuckles and all Ratonhnhake:ton knew was pain._

_By the time Lynch dropped him to the ground, Ratonhnhake:ton could tell that the sun had changed positions from the shadows on the forest floor. Hooks of pain snagged in his skin and muscles, feeling like they were trying to tear chunks out of him. As the boy, who had watched the entire beating with a smile on his face, walked towards him and blotted out the sun, all Ratonhnhake:ton could do was shake in fear._

_What sort of people could do this? How could someone as young as him control the big men that called him sir? Why was he doing this?_

_Opening his mouth, the only sound Ratonhnhake:ton could make was a small, pathetic squeak._

_Distantly, he could hear drumming and the sound of a horn._

_The boy lazily turned his head towards the sound, the smile on his face fading a little._

_"Soun's like they foun' some infermation, sir," said an unfamiliar voice. Straining his eyes, Ratonhnhake:ton saw that it was one of the men who had leaned on his gun and joked while Ratonhnhake:ton was being beaten that had spoken._

_Still looking into the distance, the boy hummed to himself._

_"It sounds like you're right," he said slowly before glancing back down at Ratonhnhake:ton. And if Ratonhnhake:ton had thought that his eyes were cold before, they were icy now._

_"Say, men," he asked casually, "what do you think about leaving loose ends lying around?"_

_"Bad idea."_

_"A terrible habit to start."_

_"Tends ta come back and bite ya in the arse, if'n ya don' min', sir."_

_The slow smile that began to curl the corners of the boy's mouth made tears begin to gather in the corners of Ratonhnhake:ton's eyes._

_"Good advice, in all," he said._

_Slowly and cruelly, the boy placed his boot on Ratonhnhake:ton's throat and began to press down._

_Ratonhnhake:ton's chest heaved as he struggled to breathe in. Weakly and with his shoulders screaming at him, he lifted his arms to bat uselessly at the leg, his nails skittering against the leather covering the boy's calf. Darkness rolled in from the corners of his eyes like thunder clouds, and distantly, he could feel something warm and wet spreading on his thighs until everything went black._

 

* * *

 

Haytham was as still as a stone as his son sat there with his face pressed to his knees, shaking with the force of his repressed sobs. Rage was flowing through him like a spring river, swollen with snowmelt.

How dare someone do that to a child.

How dare someone torture a child. His child. Even the cruelest and foulest of humanity that he had faced had drawn the line at torturing children!

But he had to control his anger. There was a child, his son, sitting beside him, needing someone to comfort and protect him.

Placing his hands on his thighs, he sat up straight and took several deep breaths, centering himself in the here and now. He had spent years learning how to repress his emotions and keep them from overwhelming him. Once he felt that he could move without hurting someone, he gently placed a hand on the boy's back.

He flinched away.

Haytham removed his hand like it was on fire.

His son gulped back a sob and gasped for air.

"W-when I woke up, the village was on fire and I-ista-"

He dissolved back into quiet, smothered sobs again.

Haytham felt helpless. He knew this part of the story. His son had rushed home to find his village on fire and his mother trapped under a beam. He had tried desperately to lift it despite his small size, all while Ziio had shouted at him to leave before he too ended up trapped in the inferno. His uncle, the unpleasant man that he had met when his grandmother revealed him to Haytham, had been forced to drag him away as his home had collapsed around his mother.

How did he deal with grief like this?

He had grown up in a happy, loving home, with a family that had loved him. His father had taught him how to use a sword, his sister had taught him how to sneak, and his mother  
had been generous with her hugs. When he had joined the Templars, he had done so knowing full well what he had been turning his back on, and even then had been able to find, if not a replacement for his family, then at least some companionship.

But his son had had none of that. He had had his mother, and that was it. His uncle had his own family, Haytham knew; he had seen him shooing them away from the white men that had been visiting, and his grandmother was the Clan Mother. If his son had stayed in their village, neither would have been able to devote much time to him.

Ziio's death had destroyed his whole world. He himself had not even been in contact with Ziio for years and still felt as if her death had left a hole in his heart. How was he supposed to replace that?

"I'll kill them."

The sobs were gone from the little boy's voice. Coming back to the room that they were sitting in, Haytham saw that his son was scrubbing furiously at his eyes, scowling at  
nothing with a wobbly chin.

"I'll kill them all," he vowed, his voice deadly serious for one so calm, "for Ista and me and istén:'a and everyone that died!"

Haytham's first impulse was to tell him that he was too young to say something like that. He had joined the Templar's to make a better world, after all. One where there wouldn't be children vowing revenge on their parent's killers. But looking at his son's flushed, tear-stained cheeks and hate-filled face, different words leapt to his tongue.

"And I will help you."

His head jerked and he turned to stare at Haytham, a look of disbelief replacing the hatred that had been stamped on his face.

Slowly, he reached out, and when his son didn't flinch away he placed his hand on top of the boy's head. Underneath his soft hair, he could feel heat hotter than any fire emanating.

"I will help you take your revenge," he said, calmly and clearly. "I will teach you how to find them, how to fight them, and how to kill them."

"Why?" the boy asked, his eyes wide and dark and lost.

"Because you are my son. And because I lost someone in their attack as well."

The boy frowned again and looked away. It wasn't a displeased frown, though. Rather, it was considering frown. He could see his son turning his offer over in his mind, trying to figure out what the catch was.

"In return, though," Haytham said, finally taking pity on the boy, "I will expect you to use your talents to help further my cause as well."

Now the boy just looked confused.

"What cause?"

"Did your mother never tell you what I did?"

The boy's braid by the side of his face whipped about his face as he shook his head energetically.

"I work with other men who wish to make the world a better place," Haytham said, placing his hands in his lap and entwining his fingers, "a world where what happened to you could never happen again."

The boy's hands, wrapped around his legs, flexed uncertainly.

"I will expect much of you if you agree," Haytham warned.

Silence stretched between them for several seconds before his son turned back to him with a fire in his dark eyes.

"I accept," he said as fiercely as a four-year-old could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Colonial America didn't really have proper whorehouses. Most prostitutes were just working women who sold their bodies on the side to supplement their own wages, and purveyed their businesses out of their workplaces.


	2. The Caribbean Assassin

William Johnson was not a man who was easily rattled. After living alongside and studying a culture that was so very different from his Irish roots, he could usually accept strange things coming out of nowhere without batting an eyelash. So he was not sure why the revelation that his Grandmaster had had a son with a native woman was still circling in his mind.

For sure, the first sight of the boy had been rather startling. Upon his first glance, William had thought that despite the fire having happened a week ago, the boy had still had ash on his face. It was only after he had launched himself at the Grandmaster howling that William had realized that the dirt was actually bruises. Mottled green and yellow smudges stretched from his temples down his throat and chest, with a black and purple print as wide across as Johnson's hand on his throat, the boy had been a ghastly sight. But it had only been ghastly, really, due to the young age of the bruises' owner. As a Templar, he was quite used to seeing mark of violence on flesh, up to and including such injuries as a cut throat or a shattered head.

Perhaps it was because it was Grandmaster Kenway. Thinking about it closely as his horse ambled over cobblestones, he supposed that that was probably it. The sheer amount of emotion that had been evident on the Grandmaster's usually stoic face when the boy was revealed by the Clan Mother had been startling. Shock had been one of the most prominent ones, followed closely by sorrow, anger, confusion and several other emotions that passed across the man's face too quickly to properly identify. That the boy had then been able to attack Grandmaster Kenway without ending up with a hidden blade lodged in some vital point, or even a hand wrapped around stick-thin wrists, spoke volumes about the man's surprise.

Finally reaching the Green Dragon, Johnson sighed and dismounted. It was not his business, keeping track of Master Kenway's apparently growing family. Doing his best to put the issue out of his mind, he straightened his clothes and walked into the tavern.

Unusually for being late afternoon, the tavern was nearly empty, with only a few people sitting at tables and nursing drinks. One of those people nursing a drink was, fortunately or unfortunately, his erstwhile employee Hickey, who managed to pull his face out of the bosom of the tavern-keeper's wife long enough to raise his tankard in greeting, grinning like a lunatic. Sighing, Johnson climbed the stairs and went and sat down across from him, despite his desire to request a meal from the owner standing at the bar. He did not have the patience to put up with Hickey's ridiculous kicked-puppy eyes tonight.

"'Ey, boss," the already half-drunk lad said, "done translatin' fer 'Ayfam already? Thought he'd keep you fer a while longer, talkin' ta tha' savages."

"Natives, Thomas," he corrected automatically, "not savages."

He rather wished that that had been the case. Rattled as Master Kenway had apparently been, they had left rather quickly before Johnson had been able to do much more than accept the Clan Mother's terse thanks. Mentally, he bemoaned the loss of that chance. He knew that he was lucky to have even been brought along; if the Grandmaster had been able to speak the natives' language, he knew he would have been left behind as punishment for Charles' attempted expedition. Kindnesses were soon forgotten, though, with new cruelties by the hands of the colonists being perpetuated every day.

Again, though, the naked shock on his Grandmaster's face swam to the surface of his mind. One did not have to be a genius to realize that he had not been aware of the  
existence of the child before that moment. In that case, perhaps, a certain amount of discomfort and fluster were understandable.

"Sir?"

The tavern-owner's wife was looking at him with concern, having extricated herself from Hickey's tentacles.

"Ah, my apologies," Johnson said, realizing what she had most likely been asking, "just an ale, please."

Mollified, the woman bustled away. Leaning back in his chair, he drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the table, enjoying the silence while Hickey guzzled down his remaining beer.

After the boy's outburst, he had retreated back to silence. Not to his previous empty-eyed catatonia, though. As his father had negotiated to take him back to his home in the city, the boy had watched the proceedings with glittering brown eyes that occasionally flashed gold in the firelight. In fact, for the rest of the time that he and Master Kenway had traveled together, the boy hadn't said a word. Just watched everything they did.

Really, it was almost creepy.

"Oi, bossman, what's got your knickers in a knot?"

Thomas had finished his drink. Dropping the tankard onto the table with a dull thud, he crossed his arms and leaned onto the table. Licking his lips to catch the last bits of foam, he jerked his chin at him.

"Somethin' happen out there?"

The words were on the tip of his tongue, begging to be let loose. Still, Johnson hesitated. While Master Kenway had not said anything in particular about keeping the boy's existence a secret, the gentleman part of him balked at gossiping about his superior.

Hickey took the entirely wrong idea from his silence and wiggled his eyebrows laviciously.

"Oh, were ya banished while he caught up with his bit on the side, then?" he asked, smirking.

Johnson hastily decided that he needed to shut Hickey up before he repeated such things to Master Kenway's face.

"She rather unfortunately had passed away in the attack," he said, and before he could stop himself he added, "and left a surprise for Master Kenway."

It took a moment for what he was implying to soak through Hickey's beer-addled mind. The moment it processed, his eyes widened.

"A kid?!!" he said incredulously, just a shade too loudly.

Shushing him, Johnson looked around. None of the other patrons, luckily, appeared interested in what they were talking about, being rather devoted to studying the bottoms of their mugs.

He looked back at the younger man, whose eyebrows were conversing with his hairline, and sighed.

"Yes, a young boy."

Hickey leaned back in his chair.

"Fock," he said emphatically.

Johnson couldn't help but agree. God only knew what this would mean for the Order.

The tavern-owner's wife came back with his ale at that point, along with a refill for Hickey, which thankfully kept him from saying anything further for a few blessed minutes.

Halfway through his own mug, the door of the tavern was flung open violently, making it bang against the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, William saw Master Lee stride in, stiff-shouldered with anger and with a small fluffy dog trotting alongside him. Behind him, Pitcairn and Church followed more calmly, with Pitcairn nodding at the owner standing at the bar and heading over to pick up a drink. Ignoring the tavern-owner's wife's greeting, though, Charles made a beeline towards the stairs, and fell into his chair with a grunt.

Well, William thought to himself sardonically, clearly the man had recovered from the scolding that Master Kenway had given all of them after finding out about that little  
expedition of his if he felt free enough to express a foul mood. Hopefully he would hide it again once Master Kenway arrived.

Thomas belched.

"Wonderful," Charles growled, glaring at the younger man.

Swaying slightly in his seat, Thomas returned the comment with an insolent look.

"Wossamatter, Charlie?" he asked, smirking drunkenly, "Can't wait t'get yer ass reamed out by 'Ayfam again?"

"That's Master Kenway to you, you mule-brained drunk!"

William sighed into his drink and tried to disappear into the background. He did not want to get dragged into the middle of their arguments again.

"Oh, sorry, can't wait t'get yer ass reamed out by Master Kenway again?" Thomas waggled his eyebrows in a way that implied obscenities. Pitcairn, who had just sat down and taken a sip of his own ale, choked and began to cough as Charles turned red. William focused on becoming one with his chair. Church ignored them all and slouched over the table, the picture of boredom.

"You-" Charles sputtered.

Thomas batted his eyelashes innocently. "'M jest lookin' out fer ya, Charlie," he cooed, "after all, this might be the last time in a while that ya get the chance. Master Kenway don't strike me as the type to entertain while a brat's in the house."

"I beg your pardon?" Pitcairn broke in, having finally gotten his coughing under control, "what precisely are you talking about?"

"I would assume," came the silky tones of their Grandmaster, "that what Hickey is referring to is my newly discovered son."

Even Church swung his head around to look at their newly arrived Grandmaster. William rather felt that they probably looked quite comical to any outsiders paying attention to them, but such worries were quickly pushed out of his head by the furious gaze that Master Kenway was pinning him to his seat with.

 

* * *

 

Haytham was disappointed. He had thought that he could at least trust Johnson to not spread around the discovery of his son. The walls had ears, after all. But apparently, he had been incorrect in that assessment of the older man's character.

Sitting down in his chair at the head of the table, he carefully did not acknowledge any of the Inner Circle, despite their obvious discomfort. He was still punishing them, after all, for their little attempted expedition, even if it did lead to him finding his son. Disobedience could not be tolerated; neither could betrayal.

Only after he was settled and the men had squirmed for a minute or two did he finally speak.

"Hickey," he said, mustering his coldest tones, "I believe that you claimed you had some information on the Assassins' movements?"

The obviously tipsy man set his mug down on the table and cleared his throat.

"Er, yessir," he muttered, "m'contacts down by the docks 'ave bin noticin' that them hood-wearin' bastards 'ave bin showin' up a lot at the docks. So they started askin' around, tryin' to see what the fuss was. Took a bit, but eventually they found out that a new assassin is comin' up from the Carribbean; 'parently their mentor decided they needed some 'elp with us."

Haytham sat still for a moment, waiting for Hickey to add more information. When none seemed to be forthcoming, he raised an eyebrow. Some small part of him took satisfaction at how the men around him subtly cringed and leaned away. It seemed that they were remembering who was the Grandmaster.

"Is that everything?" he asked, allowing a small bit of irritation to slip into his voice.

At this point, Hickey would have had to have been a lot drunker than he actually was to not catch the danger in his tone. His forehead wrinkled as he wracked his brain for more information to offer up. Haytham sat still in his chair, keeping the facade of patience up. He knew from experience that silence was often more intimidating than any amount of shouting could be.

Finally, after a painfully long wait during which Hickey's face had started to show a sheen of nervous sweat, the younger man's face lit up.

"Oh!" he said, "the bastard's also bringin' somethin' up from the French colonies; didn't hear what it was, but it's got my contacts buzzin'."

Haytham hummed thoughtfully to himself and tucked away that little bit of information for later. Briefly, he drummed his fingers on the table before leaning forward.

"Good work, Hickey," he allowed, ignoring how the younger man relaxed back in his chair, "do you know when the assassin is due to arrive?"

"Sometime this month," Hickey said, his eyes darting around as he took a gulp of ale, "weather's shitty along the coast for this time of year so no one's completely sure."

"I see."

The rest of the meeting proceeded in a similar manner, with him interrogating his Inner Circle and them offering up the smallest tidbits of information in an attempt to soothe his anger with them. By the time they were done, the tavern was slowly filling with more people, looking for a drink before heading home. Haytham stayed where he was seated at the table as the others gathered their things to leave.

"Charles," he said, carefully pitching his voice to carry over the noise of the tavern, "please stay a moment longer. I have a few things I wish to discuss with you."

The dark-haired man jumped a little. Throughout the meeting, Haytham had not spoken to him, instead relying on Major Pitcairn to relay the happenings of the British army. He had done this on purpose. Charles had been the ringleader of the little unsanctioned expedition, and as such, deserved to stew for a little while longer before being forgiven. But the man had been behaving oddly through the meeting. Not so much that it was obvious to everyone; with everyone squirming with discomfort, his fidgeting did not stick out. But the others had kept their eyes averted from him until they were called upon. Charles, however, had been staring at him throughout the reports, only looking away when Haytham glanced at him.

"Is something bothering you, Charles?"

The man's eyes darted around as he clenched and unclenched his fists spasmodically. His mouth opened and closed several times, rather reminding Haytham of the time his father had taken him fishing. When he had finally caught one, the way it had struggled to breathe had so disturbed him that they had ended up throwing it back into the water.

After a few seconds, though, Charles seemed to find his words.

"My apologies, Master Kenway," he said, "but I'm afraid that I was rather taken aback by your news at the beginning of the meeting-"

"My son, you mean."

"Yes sir, your son. I'm afraid that I find myself rather curious as to who the boy's mother is and where she is-"

A small, petty part of Haytham had been enjoying Charles' discomfort. The sight of a slight sneer on his lips at the mention of Ziio, however, quickly wiped that amusement away.

"Gone," he said flatly, shutting the man up, "murdered in the attack on her village."

The sight of Charles going pale at his tone simply intensified the throb of pain that Haytham felt at that admission. Ziio was dead, leaving a pale shadow of a son behind as his only remaining link to her. She had died alone and in pain, watching her screaming son being dragged away from her to save his life. His son was a shadow. After telling his story in the inn that night to Haytham of what had happened that day, he had lapsed back into his silence, communicating through nods and shaking his head, with the occasional shrug. And here Haytham was, pushing away his closest companions. They had gone behind his back with their planned expedition, he knew, but Charles at least had the excuse of youth to justify his impetuosity, and he could be very persuasive when he wanted to. And he had been dragging out their punishments for the better part of two months.

He was so very tired and lonely.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Charles said quietly.

Haytham roused himself out of his melancholy and glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow. A small bit of colour re-entered Charles' cheeks at the silent rebuke.

"I may not have cared for her," he said, and oh, wasn't that the truth? He had constantly complained about the time he had spent with Ziio, never in a disrespectful way but still definitely disapproving, "but I do understand that you cared for her, sir. And I cannot imagine that suddenly finding oneself a father is an easy state of affairs to take in-"

"It really is not."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Haytham grimaced internally.

Charles' gaze was not judgemental, though. He simply sat quietly, looking at him as patiently as a hound, and despite himself, Haytham was starting to remember why he liked the younger man so much.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly as he put his thoughts in order.

"I have always wanted a family, Charles," he admitted quietly, keeping his eyes shut, "and yet now that I have been given one, I find myself unsure on how to proceed."

"I thought you stated that you saw the Order as your family, sir."

Haytham opened his eyes to glance incredulously at his second. Charles flushed and bowed his head slightly, taking the rebuke.

"Tell me, Charles," he said, leaning back in his chair, "how would you get a child who had been brutally beaten and strangled by white men before watching them burn his mother alive to speak?"

"Sir?"

Haytham sighed and rubbed his chin.

"On the road back to Boston my son spoke precisely once. After I had terrified him into soiling himself, he told of the events that had happened the day of his mother's death. While playing in the forest, he was set upon by several militiamen and beaten quite severely in an attempt to force him to give up the location of his village."

Looking up, Haytham was gratified to see the shock and disgust that he had felt at the time mirrored on his friend's face.

"After a period of time, they were recalled and rather than simply leave him where he had fallen, one of the men chose to choke him close to death. The boy woke up just in time to return to see his mother trapped beneath burning beams from a long house and be forcibly dragged away as she burned."

He drummed his fingers along his other hand's knuckles.

"He hasn't spoken since. So I ask you again, how would you get him to speak, because I have tried everything I have thought of short of traumatizing him again to no effect."

Charles sat back in his chair and smoothed his mustache. Haytham knew that his regurgitation of worries had been rather sudden, especially after shunning Charles for several weeks. But the fact remained that he was out of ideas on how to reach his son. The boy was withdrawing further into himself with every day that passed, returning to being the breathing corpse he had been at his people's village, and Haytham could do nothing.

But this was not something that he should be sharing with a subordinate. Haytham opened his mouth to apologize for unburdening himself upon Charles when he began to speak.

"I'm not sure if I've ever told you, sir," he began slowly, staring at his hands in his lap, "but when I was a young boy, I had an uncle who was rather cruel to his hunting dogs. One in particular, he seemed to despise for some reason that I never was able to discern. He beat it unmercifully whenever he saw it. Because of this, the dog was terrified of people. Cringed whenever you looked at it. But, in my youth, I decided that I absolutely had to have this dog. After much begging, my uncle agreed to let me have him if I could get him to eat out of my hand."

"It did not happen overnight. I spent hours simply leaving food out and staying nearby to get him used to my presence. Each day, I moved a little closer, until finally he allowed me to pet him. After that, it was very quick to have him literally eating out of my hand. And once he was mine, and far away from his former master, he soon became the finest canine companion a boy could want."

"But when he was still accustomizing himself to my hand, sir, he was terribly confused. My uncle had made him expect pain whenever a human was near, whereas I was showing him that this was not the case."

Charles looked up from his lap, staring earnestly into Haytham's eyes.

"He just needs time, sir, to become used to his new situation. To see that not all white men are like the ones that accosted him in the forest."

Haytham lifted his hand from the table and rubbed his lower lip.

"I see," he said, careful to keep his face still. As Haytham rolled his story over in his mind, he found himself agreeing with his second's assessment of the situation. The boy had been taken from his former life and forced into a new one rather suddenly, far from any familiar face or custom and surrounded by those who resembled his tormenters. His reticence, then, was rather understandable.

"A boy is not a dog; but your words have merit, Charles," he said, rising from his chair. "My thanks, for settling my mind. But I should head home like our compatriots have, I think, before the hour grows any later."

The sky was orange and red as he walked out of the Green Dragon, showing the hours that had passed since he had first entered the building. His housekeeper, Mrs. Potts, was probably complaining under her breath again about him letting his supper go cold, feeding his son small pieces of bread to keep his stomach from growling too loudly. She had been most insistent on having him eat with his son since he had brought the boy home. A wise woman. She was worth double the salary he paid her.

Well, he thought to himself as he set off down the street, it was time to further acclimatize his son to the concept of a kind white man.

 

* * *

 

As much as Jenny enjoyed sailing, she was more than ready to set foot on dry land by the time Boston Harbour came into sight. The captain had done nothing all the way up except yell at his crew and clumsily flirt with her, though his attempts were so incompetent that calling it flirting was an insult to every dandy she had ever met.

Speak of the devil...

She steeled herself as she watched the captain give the wheel over to his first mate out of the corner of her eye and begin to walk towards her, straightening his cravat. His florid cheeks were flushed even more than usual underneath his grey muttonchops, making her suspect that he had taken a few gulps of liquid courage to encourage himself to continue his farce of a flirtation. Letting a long, low breath out through her nose, she turned her head away from the man and leaned over the railing to make it look like she was looking at Boston Port. Hopefully he'd take the hint and leave her alone.

"Lovely weather today, Mrs. Scott," the captain blustered behind her.

Bugger.

She straightened and turned around to face the captain, pasting a polite smile onto her lips. His eyes were not fastened on her face, though. Like every other time they had spoken, his eyes were taking a leisurely hike down her still-trim body.

Her skin crawled. Sometimes, in situations like this, she wished that she did not take after her father with her aging; her grandmother, she knew, had practically been a harridan by her age. She, however, still turned the heads of men, even with her graying red hair and lightly lined face.

"Indeed it is," she replied to the captain, not letting her discomfort show through long practice.

"Though not half as lovely as that dress you're wearing. Is it new?"

Jenny mentally rolled her eyes. Smoothing her hands down her skirt, she looked at the yellow cloth with a jaded eye. While finely spun and tailored, the dress itself was nothing special; indeed, any merchant's wife in England would have turned her nose up at it's plainness.

"I'm afraid not, my dear captain," she cooed, sickly sweet, "unless you've been hiding a tailor in your cabin."

The man chuckled, his eyes still firmly fixed upon her cleavage.

"No, no," he said, "there are no stowaways on board my ship."

"Indeed," Jenny replied, leaning back.

Silence stretched between them until the captain shifted slightly and placed his hands behind his back. The sound of his throat clearing was like gravel crunching underneath her boot.

"I was curious, Mrs. Scott," he began, hesitating between his words, "if you had anyone waiting for you at the docks? Boston is a large city, and it can be quite dangerous for a lady of your status, so if you so happened to require someone to show you around-"

"I thank you for your concern, Captain," Jenny said, cutting him off cooly, "but a dear friend has already arranged for an escort to be waiting for me when we dock." She let her smile fall from her face. The man had been far too forward with that request, and judging by the look on his face, he knew that as well as she did.

"Perhaps your crew could use your help in bringing her in?" she suggested delicately, dismissing him. As slimy as the man was, she did not wish to completely humiliate him in front of his crew. Though judging from the sniggering she could already hear from the men clustering near the closest mast, it was a little too late for that.

It seemed that the captain had heard the sniggering too. His face, pale from the realization of the insult he had inadvertantly paid her, was swiftly blooming with red blotches at the barely hidden laughter. Roaring, he turned on his heel and began to shout orders at the crew, laying into them as layabouts and thieves.

Jenny took this as her cue to return below deck. Sweeping past the sailors as they hurried around her, opening hatches and tying ropes into new configurations, she was easily able to make her way back to the small cabing that had been her home for the past few weeks. Tiny and somewhat dirty, it had been serviceable all the same for her. More importantly, it had had a door that locked. And with the cargo she had picked up from the French Colonial Assassins, that was what was most important.

After closing the door and locking it firmly, Jenny took the two steps it took to cross the cabin and crouched down in front of her bunk, pulling out her small jewellry chest from underneath it. Slowly and reverently, she opened it. Her jewels, gifts from the varied men in her life, sparkled in the dim light of the cabin, but they were not what she was interested in. Reaching in, she removed the small container that held a string of pearls and set it to one side on the be before pressing down on the small tile that unlocked the hidden bottom of the chest. With a click, the false bottom of the chest loosened, allowing her to gently lift it up and out without disturbing any of the other containers holding her jewels. A soft, almost unnoticeable glow lit up the cabin. Lying there, folded as small as a pocket handkerchief, was the famed Shroud of Eden.

Reverently, she let herself drag her fingers across the cloth. Despite looking like it had been woven of fine golden wires, the fabric that the Piece of Eden was made up of felt as soft and light under her fingers as a cloud. Thin, straight lines branched off of each other, creating a symmetrical and eye-pleasing pattern when unfolded that drew the eye of the viewer to the round circles and loops that made up the design in the centre of the Shroud.

From the moment she had seen it, she had been fascinated. For all of the stories she had heard from her Assassin teachers, the descriptions could not hold a candle to the actual thing. She had wondered, during the stories about Altair and the Apple, how a simple object could so hold a man's attention to the point that he ignored everything else. Looking at the Shroud though, she felt that she could understand the fascination that the mere object could engender, let alone if it started to show her visions of the past and future.

Underneath her fingers, she could swear that the Shroud glowed.

The harsh shriek of a seagull jerked her out of her appreciation for the golden cloth. Tearing away her fingers as if she had been burnt, she frowned and began to re-cover the Shroud from sight. She had spent far too much of her time looking at the cloth on her way up the coast, she knew. Even if the Shroud was not noted for making people obsessed with it in the same way that the various Apples did, she was starting to suspect that that was perhaps only because there was only one shroud, rather than the many Apples that littered history.

Well, she throught to herself, that would just have to be something to warn Mentor Davenport about.

Re-locking her trunk, she picked it up and began to head towards the top deck again.

Boston was not the most impressive port Jenny had ever seen. That honour went to good old London, with its sea of masts and riggings that had fascinated her since the first time she had seen them at the age of eight. Boston's port was simply too small and grimy for her to feel anything but boredom.

Still, the English colonies were to be her home now, so she supposed that she would get used to it soon.

As her things were carried off of the ship, she held the small chest the held the Shroud tightly in her arms. Taking the Shroud out of the French colonies had been half of the reason she was requested to come up north from the Caribbean, along with assisting Mentor Davenport with training new assassin's after the recent devastating attacks. Keeping that in mind, there was no way that she would let the Piece of Eden out of her sight.

The attacks. Jenny frowned internally, keeping a haughty look on her face to keep gawkers away from her things. She remembered when little Haythie had cried over having to kill a goat. It was hard to believe that that little boy, who had bawled until their father agreed to let him keep the goat as a pet rather than kill it, had planned out such a devastating series of attacks on the Assassins.

"Mistress Scott! Mistress Scott!"

Jenny tensed and turned, scanning the crowd around her for the speaker.

There! Trotting towards her were two young men, dressed only a little nicer than the crowds surrounding them. The first thing that struck Jenny about them was that they were almost comically exaggerated opposites. One was tall and thin, while the other was short and stocky. The tall one was so fair as to be almost albino-like, with the only relief of his pale colouring being the bright orange freckles that dotted his face like seeds scattered in a field. He waved frantically, loping towards her with his limbs slightly out of sync with each other, giving the impression that he was constantly on the verge of tripping over his own feet. The other boy was dark, with his swarthy skin tone emphasized by his companion's paleness. He seemed to be of Mediterranean stock to Jenny's experienced eye; perhaps Spanish or Italian. He just had that cocky walk that screamed to the world that he considered himself to be God's gift to women. His arms were corded with muscle, unhidden by his fine clothes.

"Mistress Scott! Welcome to Boston, it's so great to have you here!" said the tall pale boy, seizing her hand and shaking it furiously, "Master Davenport sent us! My name is Hiram and this is Daniel-"

"Charmed," said the swarthy boy, knocking the newly-named Hiram out of the way and bowing low. He kissed her hand wetly.

Hiram continued on, undeterred and practically shouting.

"We already have a carriage! It'll take us right to Davenport Manor, won't take more than-"

Subtly wiping her hand on her skirt, Jenny quickly raised her hand to shut the boy up.

"Thank you," she said firmly, "but I rather think that this is a conversation best held in carriage rather than on the docks."

Hiram turned a brilliant scarlet and nodded frantically before running off, presumably to direct the carriage closer to them. Looking over for - Daniel, was it? - she saw that the darker boy had wandered off a little ways away and was now flirting with the nearest fishmongerer's daughter.

Jesus Christ. They really were desperate straits if this was the best they had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if I got Johnson's voice wrong; I've never really written him before.


	3. The Great Bonding Chapter

Charles didn't quite know what to feel about Master Kenway suddenly having a son. Intellectually, he knew that the child hadn't simply appeared out of the woods; the boy would have to be nearly five years old, if the woman had been pregnant when she left Master Kenway. (And really, that spoke poorly for her taste, if Charles had anything ot say about it.) But still, Master Kenway certainly hadn't been aware previously of the boy's existence, so for all intents and purposes it had certainly been sudden for him.

Part of him was worried that the sudden appearance of a child would affect Master Kenway's leadership in the field. He had been quite depressed after the woman had left him, Charles recalled, shutting himself away from the rest of the Inner Circle for months in a dark mood. Another part of him scorned the first part, noting that even while distancing himself from his Templar brothers his conduct as a Grandmaster had been impeccable. A third part was simply thrilled that the man he respected above all others had apparently forgiven him for his attempted expedition enough to confide in him like before. Finally, the rest of him was reserving his judgement until he actually met the brat.

Walking towards Master Kenway's house now, though, with the lobcock Hickey stumbling drunkenly (despite it being before noon) along beside him, he found himself hoping that he would not need to meet the boy today. Hickey's leering comments about his close friendship with the Grandmaster and his love of his dogs on their way here had put him in a foul mood. Even Spado, trotting along at his heels, could not completely calm him down.

Still tasting bile in the back of his mouth, they reached the Grandmaster's fine oak front door and knocked. A young, golden-haired maid let them in, informing Charles in tones that were far too shrill that Master Kenway was busy discussing something with Master Johnson, and that he would be with them in just a moment, and would they like some tea while they waited, and on and on and on until Charles started to sincerely wish that he could get away with snapping at the woman. He knew that that was not possible, though. The first and last time he had done so the disappointed look that he had earned from Master Kenway had made him feel as tall as a blade of grass on the lawn. And lately he had disappointed the man enough.

So as Hickey leered at the maid and gave her a clap on the bottom, setting her off in a fit of giggles, Charles resigned himself to having a headache for the rest of the day.

That didn't mean he had to act like he liked it, though. Striding to Master's Kenways sitting room and leaving that irritating, giggling excuse of a maid behind, Charles flung open the door to the room, ready to fall in a chair and fume, and stopped.

Sitting in a stuffed chair, staring right back at Charles, was a little dark-haired boy with a large, leather-bound book in his lap. Dressed neatly in a blue waistcoat, white stockings and silver-buckled shoes and with his hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a blue ribbon, the boy's resemblance to Charles' Grandmaster was both undeniable and, quite frankly, shocking. In his imaginings of the boy, he had always resembled his savage mother rather than his refined father.

Charles stood, unmoving, until Hickey and his new slut of the day appeared behind him.

"Oi, Charlie, wot's the 'old-up..."

The drunk stopped and looked at the boy as well, untangling himself from the maid. Rudely shouldering past Charles, he stepped into the room, grinning like a lunatic.

"Well, ain't you just a proper li'l gentleman, sittin' wif a big book," he crowed. "If'n ya need any help with big words, jest let uncle Tommy know, eh?"

Charles couldn't help it. He snorted.

Hickey whipped his head around and frowned at him.

"You got summat to say, Charlie?" he asked, sneering.

"Just that I wasn't aware that you were capable of reading."

The sot's face twisted into something ugly, and he whirled on his heel, plopping down on the arm of the boy's chair and yanking the book out of his hands. The boy made a sharp noise and reached after the book, both actions being ignored by Hickey.

"I can read, ya sneaksby," he snarled, waving the book for emphasis, "see! The book says When the Bonny blade caro-uses-"

"Carouses!"

Charles stared. The little boy's wary look had been replaced with annoyance; he was standing, now, on the chair, his hands curled into little fists and his chin jutting out. Noticing how the two men were staring at him, he quailed slightly before visibly steeling himself and sticking out his arms.

"Give it back!" he demanded.

"Wot? You can speak English?"

Hickey's slurred exclamation of surprise broke Charles out of his own shock. Privately, he admitted to himself that he probably would have made the same assumption as Hickey if Master Kenway had not confided his worries about the boy's emotional state. Out loud, though...

"The boy asked for his book back, Hickey," he sneered, "or have you lost your own grasp of English?"

Growling, Hickey nearly threw the book into the boy's arms and stood up. Behind him, Charles could see the boy stumble slightly as he caught the book. Tucking it under his arm, he jumped off the chair and scuttled off, his courage apparently failing him. Before he left the room, though, he managed to throw a glare at Hickey's back.

Well. Half-savage or not, the boy at least seemed to have good taste in people.

 

* * *

 

William had not been expecting to see Captain Pitcairn at Master Kenway's house that day. Indeed, all he had been expecting was to drop off a report on the Kanienka:ha and the recent change in their chiefs to the Grandmaster, maybe stay for a drink. Master Kenway seemed to have finally forgiven the Inner Circle for their attempted expedition a month ago, and had stopped giving them assignments that were below their dignity.

But there Captain Pitcairn was, crouching in front of some bushes and looking rather rattled. Despite his desire to simply drop off the package of papers, William slowed down and stopped.

Closer, William could hear Captain Pitcairn speaking slowly and softly to the bush, his rifle leaning on his shoulder.

"...afraid, lad. I'm not going to hurt you."

William raised an eyebrow. Now who could he be speaking to? He loudly cleared his throat. Captain Pitcairn glanced of his shoulder and straightened up out of his crouch.

"Ah! Master Johnson! My apologies, I didn't see you there," he said, reaching out a hand to shake.

"It's quite alright, I only just arrived," William replied, taking it and shaking. Shifting his weight, he tried to subtly see what was so interesting about the bush that the man had been speaking to. To his eyes, there was nothing particularly interesting about it - ah.

Peeking out from underneath the lowest branches were a small pair of moccassins. Looking back up, William realized what had most likely happened.

Ending the handshake, he tucked his papers under one arm.

"I see you met Master Kenway's son, then?" he said, phrasing it as a question.

A pinched look came over the other man's face, and he glanced back behind himself at the bush.

"Not exactly," he said, looking worried. "I'm afraid that the lad didn't stay put long enough for introductions."

"Ran away when he saw your uniform, then?"

"Aye."

Captain Pitcairn crouched back down in front of the bush. "I've been trying to get the boy back out for near an hour, to explain that I'm not one of those men that killed his mother, but he hasn't budged." Looking back up at William, he looked hopeful. "Don't suppose you had the time to give me a hand?"

William hummed to himself thoughtfully and crouched down beside his fellow Templar. Closer now, the boy was not as well hidden. William was surprised to see how natural the boy looked in colonist clothes. When he had last seen him, in his village with his people, the boy had been clothed in tanned and patterned hides, his hair dark and fallen in front of his eyes except for one lone braid beside his face. Now, the braid remained, but the rest of his hair was neatly pulled back into a small ponytail. The hides had also been replaced with a clean white shirt, small blue waistcoat and darker blue breeches, half-covered by the boy's beaded moccasins.

The blank look in his eyes had been replaced as well. All around the dark brown irises, a thin ring of white could be seen. His arms were pressed tight to his chest causing his hands to cover the lower half of his face.

"Hope you'll forgive me," Captain Pitcairn muttered, "but I find that inspiring this sort of terror in a child leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'd rather not leave him like this."

William felt himself soften the longer he looked at the clearly terrified boy. "I don't blame you," he said softly.

Leaning forward a little, he slipped into the Kanienka:ha language.

"Are you alright, lad?" he asked.

His eyes darting between the two of them, the boy didn't answer. There was no recognition in his eyes as he looked at William. William thought that that probably made sense; the fire and meeting his father for the first time probably dominated his memories of the day that William had visited the village.

Pressing his lips together, William thought. With the fear in the boy's eyes, he doubted that the boy would be coming out so long as they were so close. At the same time though, such fears should be laid to rest, both for the boy and for Captain Pitcairn's peace of mind. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the worried look on the man's face had only deepened at the boy's lack of reaction.

Leaning towards him, he murmured, "We're crowding him."

Standing up, he brushed himself off briskly and held out a hand to help Captain Pitcairn up. Pulling the soldier up, he turned and shuffled a few steps away, tugging the captain along.

"So tell me," he said, loud enough for the boy to still hear, "how has your newest assignment been?"

For a moment, Captain Pitcairn looked confused, and William was afraid that he would have to explain his plan. Then understanding bloomed like a flower across his face.

"Sad, I'm afraid. There are still lads fighting, and far too many of them dying. Makes one's heart sick, the loss of life. And its not just the soldiers that are dying." The man shook his head, and look of real disgust crossed his face. "I found some of my men tormentin' a poor young Indian lad that had just been out hunting. Claimed that they were just making sure that the next generation wouldn't be attacking anyone. Had them whipped for that; the boy was from an allied tribe."

William sighed and shook his head as well. "That's the problem with a lot of colonists, I find," he said wisely, "they don't care to differentiate between the different tribes and confederations and lump them all together, when they are often as different as England and France!"

Captain Pitcairn cracked a smile at the comparison and chuckled before looking away. "Tried to help the boy before he left," he admitted, "but he ran off the first chance he had. Can't really blame him," he said, looking down, "but I have to admit, sometimes I wish I had a better head for languages. Maybe then I could be more of a diplomat than a soldier."

William sighed again. "Believe me," he said wearily, "diplomacy is not as wonderful as it seems. Most of the time, I end up wishing I could crack a few soldiers' head together myself."

That got a real laugh out of the man.

"Aye, aye," he admitted, "I can understand that! Still, fighting's no way to end hostilities. You just end up with the losers resenting you and eventually revolting again. Diplomacy, now, that's what ends wars! Lets everyone have a voice, figure out how to keep everyone happy."

William quirked an eyebrow, smiling. "Or rather, keeps everyone equally dissatisfied."

They chuckled and carefully didn't acknowledge the rustling of the bush behind them until the boy spoke.

"If you don't like war, why do you fight with those men?"

The boy was standing straight and tall, with his hands curled into fists at his side. His chin was rounded and sticking out, and despite the fact that he was shaking slightly with nervousness, he looked almost as resolute as his father did when William first met him.

Captain Pitcairn crouched down to better speak to the boy.

"I don't fight with those men," he said solemnly. " Mostly, I just try to limit the damage that they do. I fight with your father, to keep men like the soldiers that attacked you from doing such things, through order and discipline."

The boy's chin wobbled.

"Those men said that they were following orders to find out where the village was," he said, his voice cracking.

William felt a pang shoot through his chest at the pain in the boy's voice. Without looking, he knew that Captain Pitcairn probably felt the same. They both had children, and the look on the lad's face was setting William to thinking about seeing the same pain on his own half-native son's face. Molly and him had tried to shelter his children from such callousness from the colonists; the boy in front of him, however, was reminding him that someday he wouldn't be able to protect them anymore.

"I know," Captain Pitcairn said, and then shrugged helplessly. "The rot goes deep into the ranks."

"Would you whip them for what they did?"

Captain Pitcairn nodded solemnly at the boy.

"Aye," he said heavily, "I would."

"But they won't be," the boy said, his brows knotting together. It wasn't a question.

"No."

The anger coming off the lad was palpable, but silent. William knew that most children his age would have thrown a tantrum at such injustice. All the boy did, though, was stand there, silently seething. William wasn't sure if he preferred this to the boy's previous terror.

They stood there quietly until William couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked as kindly as he could. He hadn't really caught it at the village, keeping an eye on their surroundings while Master Kenway reeled in shock.

"...Ratonhnhake:ton," the boy replied slowly. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment before ducking his head to stare at his moccasins. "Rake:ni can't say it, though. He calls me son or boy."

Life that is scratched. William couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the boy's mother had been able to see the future.

Before they could speak any further with the boy, a maid came out to inform them that Master Kenway would see them. As they walked away, William glanced back at the boy. He was standing stiffly where they had left him, with his head down and hands curled into fists. A picture of anger and misery.

William knew that Master Kenway was a proud man. One that could speak many of the Continental languages, he knew.

Perhaps he could beg off handing in the report on the Kanienka:ha for another week. Slipping in a section on the Kanienka:ha language wouldn't take too long.

 

* * *

 

Truth was, after scuffling it out with Charlie, Thomas had completely forgotten about the boy that had started the argument in the first place. He only remembered his first, brief meeting with the kid later after listening to Benny whine about how the brat had spilt ink on one of his books for what had felt like an hour. Afterwards, Thomas had drowned that memory in the bosom of a barmaid, forgetting the kid's existence for a second time.

Third time was the charm, though. He had been visiting Haytham with Charlie again, and after giving his roughly scrawled report on a smuggling group with connections to the Assassins he had taken a stroll to the man's kitchens with the warning to stay close as Haytham would want to talk to him "after Charles was finished his report". Considering the hard-on Charlie had for Haytham, he knew that the meeting probably wouldn't happen for a while, and so he moseyed on down. He had been hoping to meet the man's scrumptious maid again and see if she wanted a quick roll in the hay, but as he entered the obscenely large kitchen, the maid hadn't been there. Thomas hadn't let himself get bogged down for long though. Or really at all. For there was a fresh tray of turnovers on the windowsill, just begging to be eaten.

Pulling out a relatively clean handkerchief that he had lifted from the lonely wife of a judge, he quickly wrapped up two pastries and absconded out the door onto the house's lawn. Scanning the grounds, he grinned as he spotted a tree. Nice and close to a wall, with plenty of leaves to hide him from sight from the house. Perfect for eating his prize.

Snickering to himself, he loped towards it and plopped down.

He had almost gotten one of the pastries to his mouth when a sharp yip made him pause. Sitting beside him with Charlie's mobile mop-head in his lap was Haytham's kid, staring at him with wide eyes and clutching the dog close to his chest.

Well shit. So much for his situational awareness.

Thinking quickly, Thomas held out the pastry still sitting on the handkerchief.

"You can have it so long as ya keep yer mouth shut, unnerstand?"

The boy's eyes darted between the pastry and Thomas' face.

Thomas waved it a little. "It's apple," he sing-songed.

The boy took the pastry hastily, breaking part of it off to give to the mop-head and shoving the rest into his mouth. Thomas grinned and shoved his own into his mouth, savouring the sweetness of the apples.

Kid wasn't so bad. Benny needed to lighten up about his damn books.

 

* * *

 

By the time the carriage had trundled to within sight of Davenport Manor, Jenny was ready to scream. Hiram and Daniel were clearly far too used to being hot stuff, and were eager to have Jenny think the same of them as well. However, they were apparently trying to get this done by annoying the shit out of her.

"So, Inagua; sunny, innit?"

"Oh, don't worry, I can get that for you!"

"Shocking to think that such a gorgeous lady as yourself would be willing to move up and help a bunch of men like us."

"That guy does great shaved ice, you should stop there!"

"Have you ever had to seduce someone to get close enough to kill them?"

"May I kiss your ass, milady?"

Well, maybe they hadn't precisely said the last one, but it basically summed up their whole approach.

Jenny was ready to scream. Disdain oozed from her pores. She knew from their nervous glances at each other that they had to be aware of her annoyance. But still, they pushed forward, sucking up and trying to do things for her that she didn't need done.

Currently they were talking about how they liked to race horses together, going into ridiculous, flowery detail as to what it was like to have the wind blowing through their hair, and how they had to take her riding sometime soon, their was nothing like it, and blah blah blah blah blah. It was like they thought she had never ridden one herself!

Sighing, she snapped her fan shut. The boys ignored her, continuing to rhapsodize about horses. Or perhaps sheep. She had stopped listening a few miles back. Peering out the window, the tall brick manor seemed to be taking forever to get closer.

The land that surrounded the manor was lovely, she had to admit. Trees taller than any she had seen before towered above their carriage, their long limbs coated in sleeves of green that only allowed small beams of sunlight through their canopy. In between the trees were verdant green fields with white-woolen sheep and dappled cows grazing alongside each other. Lines of crops took up other fields, connected by green vines, and in the distance she rather fancied that she could see an orchard.

There were people too. Like in the legendary Masyaf before it fell to the Mongol Hordes, there was a village surrounding the manor. People were out and about, walking around and doing chores. They passed by a blacksmith pounding away at his anvil, several seamstresses sewing a quilt together, farmers checking their crops and (her mouth quirked up at this) several children clearly shirking their chores. People stopped and stared at the carriage as it passed by, pointing and whispering to each other. It made Jenny rather feel like some visiting dignitary.

Though was that not what she was? Adewale had wanted to build stronger ties with the other New World branches of the Brotherhood for some time. So when the request had come to the Carribbean Brotherhood for an upper-class assassin to help the English Colonial Brotherhood, he had jumped at the chance. As she already had experience with dealing with different Brotherhood branches due to moving from England to the Caribbean when she got married, she had been an obvious choice. That her father had been wanting to shore up some business opportunities in the English colonies had just given her a ready-made alibi for being there.

Still, she had been surprised when Adewale had trusted her with the Shroud. His reasons had made sense though. When she had left, the Templars had been starting up a crack-down on their Assassin branch. No Assassin liked to think about it, but as Mentor, he always had to plan for the worst-case scenario of their branch of the Brotherhood being wiped out. And if that happened, he had not wanted the Templars to get their grubby hands on a Piece of Eden.

Drumming her fingers on the Shroud box, Jenny watched the manor come closer and closer. It was a beautiful house, she had to admit, and with it looking like it would be the only place that she would be able to get away from Hiram and Daniel's chattering, its beauty was magnified.

Finally, though, they reached the bottom of the path up to the house, and she damn near jumped out of the carriage. At the door, a straight-backed black man was waiting with his hands folded behind his back. As she marched her way up the steps, she saw the corner of his mouth quirk up underneath gray stubble.

Oh joy. Don't tell her. He had sent the boys on purpose.

She didn't let her annoyance at his little patience test show, though. As she reached the front stoop, she curtsied as best she could with one hand holding the Shroud box.

"Mentor Achilles, I presume?" she said. She allowed a bit of dryness to enter her voice.

"You presume correctly," he said equally as dryly, holding out a hand to shake. Gripping her hand firmly, his face softened slightly. "Now come in before those boys chatter your damn ears off."

She gladly entered the manor, leaving Hiram and Daniel arguing over who would unpack her luggage from the back of the carriage outside. The inside of the manor was cool and smelled faintly of fresh bread, a far lovelier scent than the weapon's oil and metal that was the usual perfume of an Assassins headquarters. Whitewashed walls were broken up only by brass candleholders, one of which Mentor Davenport was heading towards.

Before Jenny could ask what he was doing, he reached up and tugged the candleholder. A soft click echoed in the silence of the hall, and the wall swung inwards.

"Down here, if you don't mind. Fewer prying eyes," he said, already walking down the steps.

Following him, she shivered slightly as the cold air of the cellar sank into her skin. Despite several candles already being lit, the room was dim, and deep shadows lurked around ever corner. Assassin uniforms and weapons lined the walls, with a wooden floor in the middle of the room clearly set up for one-on-one combat practice. But it was the portraits on the wall farthest from the stairs that caught her attention. Or rather, one in particular.

Her little brother's face stared back at her, clothed in dark colours and surrounded by red, thinner and sterner than it had been when she had left England with her husband, David. Surrounding him were the portraits of what she had to assume was his Inner Circle.

"Recognize someone?"

Mentor Davenport's voice was conspicuously neutral. Realizing that she was still standing at the foot of the stairs, she shook herself and walked towards the man, who was leaning against the table in front of the portraits.

"Yes," she said shortly, "but I rather gather that you already knew that."

Mentor Davenport nodded. "I won't insult you by asking if this will be a problem-"

"Good."

"-But I will ask if you wish to keep this a secret or let it be known." He turned to look her in the eye. "Currently, I am the only one who is aware of your relation to the Templar Grandmaster. If you wish, it can stay that way."

Jenny didn't have to think for long.

"Let it be known if people ask," she said firmly, "These things get out anyways. Acting like it's a secret will just cause more suspicion in the long run."

Mentor Davenport gave a short nod.

"Alright then," he said, "now on to more important business."

He held out a hand. Jenny placed the jewellery box in it. Soon, the Shroud was spread across the table, gleaming softly in the candlelight.

Mentor Davenport let out a breath.

"So much trouble for such a little thing," he murmured, plucking at the hem of the Piece of Eden. Shaking his head, he refolded it swiftly and turned to her. "You'll need to be sure to hide this someplace safe for now. I need to find a proper place to keep it out of Templar hands."

"I see," Jenny said steadily. Then she cocked her head to one side. "From your words, though, I can guess that I won't be staying here for long. Am I correct?"

"You are." Davenport turned away from the table. "We lost one of our most important Assassin's several months ago in Boston. Benjamin Thatcher. He was the one in charge of keeping us abreast of Templar activities in the city, on top of teaching novices how to blend in in upper society."

"You don't teach that yourself?"

Davenport's mouth twisted into a wry grin and he gestured to himself. "You think someone of my skin colour would be able to blend in among those muckity-mucks? No," he chuckled, "they need to learn from a master."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered that I'm known so well," she said. "You want me to take his place, then?"

Davenport nodded.

"Kenway's been stepping up attacks on our safehouses recently. Thatcher wasn't the only one to be killed recently. As it is, no one left is rich enough to penetrate Boston high society." Looking at her sternly, he said, "We need to re-connect with them. The movers and shakers of colonial society can't be left to be corrupted by the Templars. Currently, we only have two novices who have rich enough families to blend in," he said, "but they're quite a handful by themselves."

"Who are they?"

"You've already met them."

It took a moment for the penny to drop, but when it did it hit the ground like a falling cannon.

"Hiram and Daniel," she said, grimacing.

"Hiram and Daniel," Davenport agreed. "They're good boys, excellent at the martial side of things. Why, Hiram can decant poisons and tranquilizers in his sleep. But neither of them - "

"Know the first thing about subtlety." Jenny thought grimly of how they had jockeyed for her favour on the ride there.

"I take it from your expression that they've already tried to suck up to you?"

"They're not even good at it," Jenny said, shaking her head.

Davenport sighed and shrugged, suddenly looking very old. "They've never had to work for it before," he said helplessly. "Most of the fighting instructors adore them since they learn so fast. And I can't spend enough time with them for them to take my criticisms to heart like they need to."

"Well, I am definitely going to change that," Jenny said, clapping her hands together. "Those boys won't get a kind word from me until they at least learn how to suck up properly."

A small smile graced the old man's lips. "I look forward to hearing their complaints, then," he said. Turning, he began to head up the stairs. "Now, you must be tired from your trip. I had a room prepared for you upstairs if you wish to rest, and if you'd like to join me for dinner, we'll speak further on the situation in Boston."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not so sure about Johnson's voice. Any feedback would be appreciated. Also, the Molly he refers to is his native common-law wife, with whom he historically had several children.


	4. In the Grandmaster's Parlor

Haytham took up what had become a very familiar position outside of his son's door, listening to muffled sobs while he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Intellectually, he knew what he had to do. As a child in London, it had seemed as if the slightest unhappy noise during the night had brought his father to his room, ready to soothe away whatever small, childish worry had disturbed his sleep so. All he had to do was open the door, walk in and wake his son up from his nightmare, hug him or rub his back, possibly even stay with him until he fell back asleep.

And yet, here he was, dithering. He had raised his hand to grasp the doorknob half a dozen times before losing his nerve and letting it fall back to his side. Deep inside, he knew that his behaviour was unbecoming of man, let alone a Templar Grand Master. Yet despite this, his courage, which had carried him through countless battles and dark moments, was failing him in the face of his son's grief.

Part of the problem, he knew, was his ignorance. Ignorance both of his son and of the sort of grief that he was going through. His father and sister, he knew, were still alive down in the Caribbean. He too had lost a mother, but she had passed shortly after his fourteenth birthday, after a long illness in which he had had the time to come to terms with his impending loss. His son had had a mother in the morning and a corpse by the afternoon. The loss of Ziio was hard enough on him, even after several years apart and with an adult's understanding of death. He could not imagine how it felt to her four year old son, and that was the main problem.

Well, no.

Haytham took a step back from the door and rubbed his knuckles in a nervous tick. The main problem was that he kept using his discomfort with the situation as an excuse to keep his distance from the boy. He had latched onto Charles' advice that the boy simply needed time to get used to things and then done nothing to help with the process. He had promised the boy revenge for his village and yet was teaching him nothing. And it was only now, in the small hours of the morning, that he could admit this to himself. He was a coward, pure and simple, when it came to emotional issues. They had lived together for nearly a month and he knew nothing about his son, like how he liked to be comforted or how he needed to mourn according to his mother's people.

For Christ's sake, he couldn't even be arsed to figure out how to pronounce the boy's name!

Angrily, he dug a fingernail into the meat of his hand. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and glared at the door. He was a Templar. He believed in controlling the weaknesses of humanity for a better future, and such control started with one's self. Reaching out a hand, he turned the doorknob and entered the room before his nerves could fail him.

The blackness of the room swallowed him whole. Haytham was forced to stop and let his eyes adjust to the tiny sliver of moonlight that snuck its way in through a crack in the thick woolen curtains that hung in front of the room's window.

The room was as bare and still as it had been a week and a half ago when he had given it to his son. The whitewashed walls caught the black shadows of the furniture, making them stand out like the twisting arms of Hekatonkheires behind Zeus's throne. In the weak light of the moon, the bed's dark wood contrasted greatly with the whites of the sheets the maids had placed on the bed. Curled up in the middle of bed in a tight ball like a sleeping hound was his son.

Taking a hesitant step towards the bed, Haytham frowned and stopped as he realized that the sound of sobbing had stopped once he had stepped into the room. He knew he had heard the boy crying; or was his hearing going already?

A small whimper, quickly choked back, reassured him that his hearing was fine. Keeping his steps soft, Haytham crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Here, closer to his son, he could see how his son hadn't even slipped under the covers of his bed. Instead, he was wrapped as tightly as a ball of twine in the dark blue embroidered blanket that the Clan Mother had given to him before he left. The soft cloth totally covered the boy's small body, peaking over his head like an Assassin's hood, a comparison that made Haytham's lips make an aborted twitch of distaste.

This close, sounds were clearer as well. Small muffled whimpers, like a sob forcibly confined between tightly closed lips, reached his ears. Reaching out a hand, Haytham gently laid it onto what he was fairly certain was his son's back only to feel the small boy flinch under his touch and let out a wet gasp.

"Sorry," came the miserable, watery whisper, floating through the darkness with an accompaniment of snuffles. "Didn't mean to bother you."

It hit Haytham, then, that his son believed himself to be an annoyance to him.

Looking at his actions, though, he couldn't bring himself to say that the boy had not come to a reasonable conclusion, based on Haytham's own actions. Outside of meals, he had essentially ignored the boy, spending his time instead as he had before his son had arrived in his life, in his office with reports on the Colonial Rite. Even his Inner Circle had been able to summon some affection and attention towards the boy, and they had only been over one or two times.

"Don't be."

He wanted to hit himself. His son thought his misery was a bother to his father, and that was the best that he could come up with? Luckily, though, the boy didn't seem to notice. A small dark arm poked out of the bundle and wiped at his face and nose.

Slowly and gently, Haytham began to rub the boy's back as his father had after a particularly bad nightmare. The boy's back was a knot of tension, trembling slightly underneath his hand.

Wetting his lips, Haytham opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and closed it. It seemed that he hadn't completely purged himself of his weakness.

They lay and sat there, respectively, in silence. Only the soft sound of Haytham rubbing his son's back and the boy's harsh, shaking breaths could be heard.

He was so small, Haytham thought to himself. Too small to contain all of the sadness he felt. His hand easily covered the boy's trembling back, past his shoulderblades, to the point that he could hardly move his hand before reaching his tailbone.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the body underneath his hands ceased trembling. The quiet, shaky whimpers evened out into the deep breaths of sleep and the tension that had filled the boy's back slipped away until he was utterly relaxed in the way that only exhaustion could truly achieve.

Reluctantly, Haytham lifted his hand and placed it back in his lap. For a minute, he simply sat there on the edge of the bed, staring at the now-sleeping boy.

This had to change. He needed to make more of an effort to make his son feel welcome, to let him know that he hadn't been separated from his people on a whim. William had sent him a treatise on the Kanien'keha language recently in what he was fairly sure was an attempt to help.

Learning how to pronounce his son's true name was a good start.

 

* * *

 

Of course, as soon as he had resolved to begin teaching himself the language of the Kanien'keha, several crises that truly required his personal attention immediately cropped up.

Sitting at his desk in his study in the evening after supper, he did not do anything as crass as groan. He merely let out a breath with perhaps more force than usual. This did not stop his head maid, Mrs. Potts, from poking her head in through the doorway. Dressed soberly in dark colours and with her greying brown hair neatly hidden underneath a bonnet, she was holding a small tea tray, piled high with freshly polished silver.

"Are you quite alright, sir?" she asked, the picture of propriety. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

Haytham glanced up from Hickey's scribbles on a particularly ambitious-seeming smuggling ring that seemed to be funding a particularly irritating Assassin cell in the city and rubbed his forehead. The man was asking how he wanted the smugglers dealt with, and Haytham was debating his options.

"No, no," he sighed, "I've already had far too much." Briefly, he managed to flash a small smile at the motherly woman. "Any more and I'd bankrupt myself, buying it every day."

The woman smiled back and bobbed slightly before continuing on down the hall, the tea tray firmly clasped in her chubby hands. Grimacing, Haytham turned back to his note from Hickey.

How should he deal with these smugglers?

His first option was to simply get rid of the smugglers so as to deprive the Assassins of a source of funds. His old enemies liked to pretend that they were above such things in their pursuit of anarchy, but in his time as one of them he knew that they were just as dependent as anyone else on money to keep their Brotherhood running. Without the money from the smugglers, the Assassins would find themselves far more restricted in bribing officials, paying spies and informants, and even equipping themselves. Normally in a situation like this the destruction of the smugglers would not be a question.

However, Hickey had noticed something quite unusual about this particular group. Apparently, one of his informants had overheard the leader of the smugglers bragging about actually knowing their benefactors. Tapping a finger on his desk, he debated the likelyhood of the smuggler's claims being more than a drunken boast. The smuggler had, according to Hickey, accurately described the hidden blade that had been the mark of the Brotherhood for centuries, and the white robes that they still favoured despite their visibility.

Despite these claims, though, Haytham was having a difficult time imagining the Assassins to be so careless as to allow themselves to interact with hired help. So far, all of the Colonial Rite's raids on Assassin safehouses had been the result of months of work of tracking them through their dead drops and proxies. Unlike their past Mentors, such as Ezio Auditore, the Colonial Mentor so far seemed to prefer to keep the Assassins more strictly separated from their usual partners in crime. The smuggler could have simply gotten a glimpse of an Assassin once or twice when they were leaving instructions, heard of their work and decided to play up their relationship in an attempt to deter competition. Hickey had noted that the smuggler had bragged of this supposed relationship during an argument with the leader of a rival ring.

But if the smuggler was telling the truth...

The previous safehouses that they had attacked had died to a man, fighting to the death or committing suicide rather than allowing themselves to be captured and interrogated. It had been quite disturbing, really, reminding Haytham a little too much of his time with the English Assassins. He grimaced as he remembered the fanatical gleams in their eyes as they mocked the Templars devotion to their causes, proudly bragging of their distant ancestors martyring themselves in suicidal attacks on Templar strongholds. Even back then he had wondered at their pride in their ancestors' deaths; for what good could a dead man do? Once one was dead, there was nothing more they could do for the world to make it a better place.

But the smuggler had claimed to have regularly gone drinking with his Assassin. That suggested a more earthly Assassin, one that perhaps valued his life and pleasure more than his compatriots. One that could either be bribed or tortured into revealing the hiding place of the Colonial Mentor and where he was training Assassin recruits. If he could learn that, Haytham knew that it would spell the end of the Assassins in the Colonies. Cutting off both the head and the feet of the monster, leaving its hands flailing around and to be destroyed at the Templar's leisure.

A small noise at the door drew Haytham out of his musings. He lifted his head to dismiss Mrs. Potts once more only to find that the head maid was nowhere to be seen. Rather, he locked eyes with his son.

The little boy, half-hidden by the doorway, squeaked with wide eyes and pulled his head back. The small fingers still clinging to the wooden frame showed that he hadn't run away, though.

Blinking a little in surprise, Haytham waited for a moment. The fingers stayed where they were, though. Mentally shrugging, he turned is attention back to Hickey's report.

When he looked back up, the boy was peeking around the corner once more. Seeing that he was discovered again, though, he repeated his squeak and pulled back. This time, however, it seemed that his son's courage had failed him. The small fingers disappeared from the doorway, and soon all that was left of the moment were the rapidly fading sounds of small, quick footsteps running away. Haytham raised an eyebrow and wondered what, precisely, the boy had been doing. Some sort of game, perhaps, to avoid going to bed? The mystery was quickly pushed from his mind, though, as he spent much of the night surrounded by burnt-down candles, looking through other reports and mulling the smuggler situation over. At breakfast the next morning, the boy was a silent and uninterested in his surroundings as usual, to the point that Haytham began to wonder if he had imagined the sight of his son in his study's doorway.

Then the events of the previous evening repeated themselves.

Again and again.

And again.

By the evening of the fourth day, Haytham had had enough. Listening closely, he heard the sounds of the boy creeping up to the study (and really, he had some impressive skill in sneaking for a four-year-old; something that should be encouraged in the future, Haytham knew). Silently, he got up from his desk and crossed the room to stand at the side of the doorway that his son usually peered in from. Waiting patiently, he was rewarded when a small, black-haired head poked in.

His hand lashed out and dragged the boy in by his collar before he had a chance to make a sound. Quickly, he fished the door's key out of his pocket and locked it before turning back to his son.

The boy's, no, Ratonhnhake:ton's cravat had been knocked askew by Haytham. His collar, previously neatly covered by the simple white cravat and blue ribbon bow, was exposed and partially sticking up under one ear, fluffing out his messy mop of hair. Ratonhnhake:ton didn't seem to mind though. He was staring at his feet and tugging at his blue vest, subtly patterned with the Templar cross. The fabric had been an impulsive choice, but he had wanted to make it clear to any of his subordinates his affection for the boy, since he had found that he had difficulty doing so openly.

Crossing his hands behind his back, Haytham straightened and cleared his throat slightly.

"Ratonhnhake:ton," he said sternly, "what were you doing?"

The boy looked up, his eyes wide, and didn't reply.

Haytham tried not to frown. Despite his son's silence, he knew from watching his body language during dinner that the boy was sensitive to his displeasure, flinching whenever he corrected his manners. Shifting his weight, he raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" he demanded.

"You pronounced my name right."

What.

Ratonhnhake:ton flushed at his silence and looked back down at his feet. Haytham pressed his lips together. He had looked over Johnson's report on the Kanienka:ha the past few days, mentally practicing pronunciation during the day and verbally after Ratonhnhake:ton had been put to bed. The notes had been quite helpful overall, making a note of the lack of sounds in the language involving pressing the lips together; Johnson had even gone so far as to phonetically spelling out his son's name. It was only the fact that Johnson didn't have a mocking bone in his body that kept him from being insulted by such cheek.

"I've been practicing," Haytham said curtly. Immediately he felt bad as Ratonhnhake:ton began to wrinkle the hem of his vest.

Damn it, he had promised himself to stop making his son feel like he was a bother. The first chance he gets, though, and he starts snapping at him. He was buggering this all up. Closing his eyes, he thought. Haytham's own father had been a busy man, he remembered, but he had never made Haytham feel ignored. Haytham had always felt quite free to visit him in his office with some small, childish bauble to babble about in return for a pat on the head. Meanwhile Ratonhnhake:ton was so intimidated by him that he couldn't summon the courage to look him in the eye.

What could he do to make this better?

Sighing, he opened his eyes and crouched down, remembering how he had been reassured whenever his father had done so. It had always meant that he was not angry, and was about to talk to him man to man. In any case, this would hopefully keep him from looming over and intimidating the little boy.

"Ratonhnhake:ton," he said, keeping his voice soft and gentle, "I'm not mad. I'm just curious as to why you have been spying on me for the past few days."

Ratonhnhake:ton didn't look up from his feet and continued to fiddle with his waistcoat.

"Son..."

The little boy mumbled something. Haytham leaned closer.

"I beg your pardon?"

"...I liked it when you rubbed my back."

Haytham waited silently. People hated silences, he knew, and would often fill it with more information if one simply stayed quiet. Ratonhnhake:ton was no different it seemed. Rocking slightly, he chewed on he lower lip before speaking more.

"When you rubbed my back that night, I felt better," he said, every word sounding as if it had been dragged from him, "a-and I was wondering if you would...maybe do it again?"

Haytham leaned back slightly onto his heels as Ratonhnhake:ton's shoulders came up around his ears. His cheeks darkened with what looked to be embarassment.

He hadn't realized that his actions that night had made such an impression. It had been a whim, from a distant memory of his own father coming to his room after a particularly bad nightmare. He had sung an old sea shanty softly as he lay down beside him, allowing Haytham to cuddle close to his chest. He had been gone by the morning, but the memory had remained as proof of his love.

Ratonhnhake:ton squirmed and pressed his hands together, looking down at his feet.

"'M sorry," he said quietly, looking down at his feet, "I'll go now."

Bugger.

Haytham's hand shot out, keeping the boy from leaving. He wouldn't let this continue on. The boy stiffened at the contact and looked up at him through his long, black eyelashes, moisture shining in his eyes. Tightening his lips, Haytham stomped down his discomfort with touching people and, swallowing, pulled Ratonhnhake:ton close, tucking his head underneath his chin.

The boy was like a little bedwarmer in his arms, throwing off heat. Breathing in deeply, Haytham could smell the soap that Mrs Potts had washed him with and underneath that, the fresh scent of the wind and forest. His heart gave a pang as he remembered that Ziio had smelled like that.

He could still remember their last time together. After more physical pursuits, they had curled up together on a single bedmat in front of the fire. He had been resting he head on her chest, rubbing circles into her hip absent-mindedly. She had been running her fingers through his loosened hair and humming some Native lullaby when he had joked about the small paunch that she had seemingly developed, calling her his fierce huntress and wondering aloud if there would be any animals left for them to hunt tomorrow.

Looking back, he remembered now how her fingers had stuttered in their strokes and her body tensed under his fingers. How she had stopped humming. But at the time he had been sleepy and content, and so had ignored the signs. The morning after, she had ended their relationship. That had been the last time he had seen her alive.

He found himself mimicking her actions from that night, threading his fingers through Ratonhnhake:ton's hair.

"You're not a bother," he murmured, pulling back to look his son in the eye, "ever."

Picking him up and ignoring the small squeak that he gave as his feet left the floor, Haytham turned and headed not towards his desk but the pair of stuffed chairs he had placed near the room's fireplace. Sitting down in one, he rearranged their limbs until they were in a comfortable arrangement and leaned back, clearing his throat.

"I know that I have not been as attentive as I should perhaps have been," he said, subconciously pulling Ratonhnhake:ton's stiff little body closer, "but believe me, if I did not want you here, you would not be here. It is just..."

He hesitated. He had never been particularly good with expressing his emotions, being taught during his training as an Assassin that it was better to repress his feelings so as to continue whatever mission he was assigned. But he knew, in his bones, that that would be precisely the wrong thing to do in this situation. So, steeling himself, he continued to speak.

"Before I met your mother, I had never truly expected that I would have a family," he confessed in a rush.

"I thought that my work would have to take its place, and that I would never have a wife or children to help me shoulder that burden. I wanted one," he assured his wide-eyed son, "but I never, truly, expected that it would become a reality. So when I found out about you..."

Blast it, how was it he could bark orders at drunken sots and be obeyed and yet find himself tongue-tied under his son's dark-eyed gaze?

"I do not mean to ignore you, or make you feel unwelcome. It is just that now that I have been handed a dream, I find myself at a loss on how to proceed with it."

His son was still, continuing to stare up at him. Haytham was far too old and too well-trained to squirm with discomfort, but his gut clenched. Had Ratonhnhake:ton even understood all that he had said? He was bright for a four year old, yes, and he had been able to tell Haytham what had been done to him in the forest that day, but he was still a small child with English as his second language.

Just as Haytham was about to...well, he wasn't sure what he was about to do, but he was about to do something, Ratonhnhake:ton shifted and burrowed into his chest. Little fingers curled around the buttons on his waistcoat and fisted the front of his shirt as he placed his head back under Haytham's chin and just _relaxed_. Curling his arms around the boy automatically, Haytham swallowed convulsively and tried to follow his son's example.

They sat there together in front of the fire for a long time in silence. Haytham found his fingers stroking down the back of Ratonhnhake:ton's waistcoat absentmindedly as he listened to the soft gusts of his son breathing. Outside of the room, he could hear Mrs. Potts directing the other servants in finishing cleaning up their supper and preparing the bedrooms for when they went to bed. Inside, though, was a bubble of peaceful quiet. The sort that he hadn't felt for years. Not since he had left his father's house and joined the Templars.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

"Did you mean it?"

Haytham loosened his arms and looked down. Ratonhnhake:ton looked back up at him, his head still resting against his chest and his eyes shining in the firelight.

"Did I mean what, son?" he said, careful to keep his voice soft and non-threatening.

His son kicked his feet a little and looked down for a moment, chewing his lip.

"Did you mean it when you said you wanted me?"

Haytham squeezed his arms around his son in a hug and laid his head on top of his.

"Every word," he promised.

He could feel his son's smile against his chest, and was only able to keep from mimicking it with his own through long experience.

Kicking his feet again, the little boy looked back up.

"Then, can you maybe tell me how you met Ista? She never really told me," he asked shyly.

The small, sweet smile on his lips and his excited wriggle in Haytham's lap rendered the older man incapable of refusing. Feeling his lips twitch slightly into a tentative smile, he leaned back in his chair, tucking his son's dark head back under his chin and began to rub his back again, like in the previous night.

"Alright, lad," he said softly, "but you'll have to go right to bed after."

The grin that bloomed across his son's little face filled him with a bevy of indescribable emotions.

"Okay!" Ratonhnhake:ton chirped, burrowing back into his chest.

Settling deeper into the plush seat and back of the chair, Haytham opened his mouth and began to speak.

"I came over here five years ago from England, on a mission to strengthen the local branch of an association that I had long been a part of. While doing so, I came across a slaver by the name of Silas Thatcher..."


	5. Nightmares

The month after that first night in front of the fire had passed quickly. Haytham and Ratonhnhake:ton had settled into a new routine. The boy would quietly play in the morning with a few of his toys and 'help' Mrs Potts make lunch and prepare for dinner. Still taking their meals together, Ratonhnhake:ton now also sat up with Haytham in his office after supper, reading until it was time for him to go to bed. Only occasionally did his son ask for help with words; the rest of the time, he could read quite well on his own. Apparently Ziio had been tutoring him in English almost a soon as he could speak, telling him that he would need to know it in the future.

She had truly been an amazing woman.

But now, Haytham was almost regretting the sudden closeness between the two of them. For while he had been trained on how to grapple since he was Ratonhnhake:ton's age, he had never faced so fierce an opponent as a child determined to keep their father home.

"Ratonhnhake:ton, you need to let go," he tried to say sternly. It came out more like a plea.

The boy clinging to his leg violently shook his head, his braid whipping around.

"Son-" he tried again.

Ratonhnhake:ton whined, like he was building up to a sob.

Helplessly, Haytham looked to Mrs Potts, who was standing by the staircase. She shrugged, giving him a rueful look.

Letting a breath out through his nose, he looked back down at his son.

"Son," he said, covering his son's head with his hand, "I need to go. I'll be back by morning - "

Something hot and wet was seeping into the leg of his trousers. Sniffling, Ratonhnhake:ton lifted his head from where he had buried it in his father's thigh. His freckled cheeks were flushed and wet.

"Noooo," he whined, his voice cracking, "you won't come back."

Haytham brushed his hair back from his forehead with his thumb.

"Why do you think that?" he asked.

Ratonhnhake:ton didn't answer. Burying his face back into Haytham's thigh, his narrow shoulders heaved with repressed sobs.

"Ratonhnhake:ton."

A muffled wail was the only answer that he got. Haytham's pressed his lips together in a flash of irritation before stamping down on it. He and his son had only recently begun to start really spending time together. It was not surprising that with their new closeness, he would be hypersensitive to any hint of them returning to their previous awkwardness.

Gently, Haytham put his hand on top of Ratonhnhake:ton's head and slid it down until he was cupping his dampened jaw. Mindful of the strength in his hands, he tilted his son's chin up and forced him to look him in the eyes.

"Ratonhnhake:ton," he said sternly, "I have to go. I will be back in the morning. Now let go of my leg."

The boy's chin wobbled.

Bugger.

Haytham wracked his mind to come up with something to get the boy to let go without a crying fit. Shifting slightly, the pendant, the Piece of Eden that had lead him to the New World in the first place, rubbed against his chest from its customary position under his shirt.

Wait.

An idea struck Haytham. Reaching under his shirt, he pulled the pendant out and over his head. He was gratified to see his son's eyes immediately zero in on the artifact.

"Do you know what this is, son?" he asked.

Ratonhnhake:ton shook his head, but continued to stare at the ancient artifact.

"It's the item that I told you about. The one that got me sent here."

"Ista?"

The look on his son's face made Haytham's chest twinge. The mixture of hope, love and grief mirrored his own intense emotions that surfaced whenever her name was mentioned in casual conversation.

"Yes," he said softly. "It's why she spoke with me, and why we spent enough time together to fall in love. It's very important to me, do you understand?"

Ratonhnhake:ton reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the pendant, looking up at Haytham questioningly. Reaching down, Haytham gently took a hold of his son's hand and deposited it into his small fist, curling his chubby brown fingers inward.

"As long as you keep it safe, I will always come back," he said, grey eyes meeting brown. "Always."

Ratonhnhake:ton broke their gaze first, glancing down at his hand holding the pendant before looking back up at Haytham with a potent mixture of raw hope and fear.

"Promise?" he asked, his voice soft and broken.

"I promise."

For a moment, the boy looked like he wasn't going to believe Haytham, and the older man braced himself for another round of trying to pry his son off of his leg. But after one last tight hug to his father's leg, Ratonhnhake:ton let go and stepped back.

Immediately, finally, Mrs. Potts swooped in and placed her hands on Ratonhnhake:ton's shoulders.

"There, there, Ratoonhaykaytoon," she said in a motherly voice, mangling his name completely, "your father's no liar. If he say's he'll be back by morning, then he'll be back by morning, you mark my words."

Ratonhnhake:ton raised his shoulders up around his ears and shuffled his feet, allowing himself to be dragged away by the still-talking Mrs. Potts. Haytham listened with half an ear as he pulled on his coat and cape.

"How about you wait for him in his bed, then?"

Haytham nearly tied his fingers into his cape's knot. Feeling his ears heat, he looked at Mrs Potts, only to have her wink at him. Stiffening, he turned away and quickly exited the door.

As he walked down the rapidly cooling street, he folded his hands together behind his back and squeezed in an attempt to banish the embarassment that came from realizing that one's servants knew of the other new habit he and his son had started.

Spending more time together as they were, Haytham had quickly realized that the nightmares were striking his son more than once per night. Early on after their discussion in front of the fire, he found himself listening to his son waking up with a sob three or four times a night. The day after such noises, he had watched the boy stumble around the house until their nightly reading, dark smudges like bruises under his eyes. Soon, he found himself going through the old, painful yet happy memories of his childhood as he listened to his son snuffle and sob in his sleep, wracking his mind to find a solution for the nightmares. After several long nights sitting up in his own room, he finally found a particularly old memory. Something, perhaps a scary story, had thoroughly terrified him before bed, causing him to see a devil in every shadow in his London bedroom. After lying in his bed for what had seemed like hours, he had called out for his mother and father, convinced that something would kill him if he dared to fall asleep. Running in with a sword in hand, his father had laughed when he realized why his son had called out for him in the night. Scooping him up from his sheets, his father had merrily taken him back to his own room and placed him in between him and his mother, assuring him that no monster was capable of getting past his parents. With that reassurance, and the strong arms of his father wrapped around him, he had slept soundly until breakfast.

It had taken a shamefully long time to separate himself from the emotion of the memory. Eventually, though, Haytham had been able to dissect why he had been able to sleep so well with his father beside him, and decided to apply it to his own relationship with Ratonhnhake:ton. And it had worked. Almost immediately after taking the sleeping boy back to his own bed, the boy had calmed. Burrowed into his father's chest, occasionally twitching from some childish dream, Ratonhnhake:ton had slept through that night, and the next, and the next, as soundly as if he was a rock.

The two of them had very quickly settled into this new habit with gusto. During one of their nights together reading in his office, the boy had shyly revealed that Ziio had slept with him as well. And after particularly long days, when everything in the Order seemed to have gone wrong at once and absolutely needed the Grandmaster to be put to rights, finding his son already settled into their shared bed with his face buried in his father's pillows with a content look on his small face reminded Haytham why he was doing this. As Haytham had usually risen early to return him to his own bed, he had rather fancied that this new habit had remained a secret between the two of them.

But apparently not.

 

* * *

 

By the time Haytham had made his way to the Green Dragon, he had managed to re-box up his embarassment and had returned to being the icy, in-control Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite. The place was packed with lesser members of the Order, and up above in the loft the rest of the Inner Circle had arrived and was poring over the rough map that Hickey had managed to sketch out of the smugglers' hideout.

Charles looked up as he approached and lifted a hand in greeting.

"Good evening, Master Kenway," he said solicitously, "I was starting to fear that our enemies had gotten wind of our plans and ambushed you while you were on your way."

"No, no," Haytham replied, taking his place at the head of the table, "just someone that was distressed by the idea of my being gone for the whole night."

"Radunhagaydun?" Charles said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Ratonhnhake:ton," he corrected gently. Charles still flushed. The man really needed to learn the difference between a correction and an rebuke, Haytham thought to himself. Ah well, that lesson was for another day.

Hickey grunted from his seat.

"That name's a hell of a mouthful," he said before taking a swig from a tankard.

"And yet, it is still his name." Frowning, Haytham lightly plucked the tankard from Hickey's loose grip and set it aside before he could complain. "Please try to stay sober for this, Hickey," he said, "we don't know if there will be an Assassin there or not, and I would hate to have to replace you because you stumbled and fell on one's blade."

Hickey frowned and flopped back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"'S still a mouthful," he grumbled.

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you propose as a solution?" he asked, keeping his annoyance out of his voice but not his face.

Johnson cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Perhaps, for Thomas at least," he said, "and the less linguistically gifted of those of us, he could have an English name. I've found John to be a popular name when this is the case."

Well. That was not something he expected from Johnson. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a still-red Charles was nodding furiously at this idea.

"If you don't mind, sir," he said, "it's a good idea. Even if it's just for the future. Perhaps the name Connor, instead, would suit him? It means lover of hounds, and he does disappear with Spado whenever I visit."

"How about James?" Pitcairn piped up from where he was seated. "That's a good, strong, Protestant name."

"Or perhaps, we could get back to planning this assault," growled Church. Glancing over, Haytham made note of the signs in his posture and on his face that pointed towards the doctor having a hangover. Disappointing. He expected better. Still -

"I'm afraid that our dear friend Doctor Church has a point, gentlemen," he said, injecting a false note of regret into his voice and carefully filing away the names for later consideration. "What have you come up with so far?"

The plan was simple, as all good ones were, and Haytham did not need to make anything more than a few small tweaks. Hickey had found out that the smugglers had been expecting a particularly large shipment of Dutch tea and silks that week and would be celebrating their sudden windfall in their main warehouse. Most, if not all of the smugglers were expected to be there. The building itself had only two entrances and exits, besides the windows, with a hidden tunnel out to the Boston farmlands as an escape route if things went poorly for them in a fight with rivals. That tunnel was worrying, but with the amount of men that they had at their command, stationing a few down there would be no great deal. Hopefully, Church would be able to handle that along with nursing his hangover.

Johnson and Hickey would be in charge of keeping an eye out for any Assassin reinforcements. Johnson because he was not a martial man, but still had very good eyes for a man his age, and Hickey because forcing him to work with Charles was a recipe for getting their attack discovered before it could start.

The rest of the men, split into two groups under their most martially experienced men, Pitcairn and Charles, would attack at Haytham's signal.

Outside, with the cool night air in his lungs and grit from bricks under his fingernails, Haytham felt excitement spike through his blood. It had been far too long since he had last been out in the field, even before he had brought his son home, and the burn in his muscles reminded him of this fact mercilessly. It was a good burn though, giving him the satisfying feel of truly working. With a small huff of air, he finished pulling himself onto the roof of the building across from the smugglers and took up his position beside the building's chimney.

Looking around, he did one last check to make sure everyone was in place. With a blink, his world went dark. Like smoke from a freshly extinguished candle, his allies appeared in glowing whisps of blue, with his Inner Circle glowing gold. Instinctively, he knew that the gold figures on the ground were Charles and Pitcairn, right where they were supposed to be. Glancing around the rooftops surrounding him, he could also see Johnson and Hickey, just getting into position. As he watched, he saw Hickey turn and wave the all clear signal. As for Church, Haytham would just have to trust that he was in position.

Pulling his pistol out, he shot it into the air.

The crack echoed in the quiet, and he watched in satisfaction as Charles and Pitcairn's men surged forward silently in a show of discipline. It was over in only a few minutes. By the time he made it down to the ground and to the doors, most of the smugglers were either pinned with their arms behind them or bleeding out on the dirt floor of the warehouse.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but think that it was a pity. A good fight would have dealt with the excitement still marching along his nerves. Overall though, he couldn't complain. Looking around, he couldn't see any of his own men on the ground with the dead and dying, and that was always a good thing.

Picking his way through the broken chairs and upturned tables, he ignored the piles of tea crates and headed towards the prisoners.

"Sir," said Charles. He hastily wiped his sword clean and sheathed it, straightening his back. Haytham waved for him to relax .

"No problems, I suppose?" he asked, looking from Charles to Pitcairn. The older Major shook his head.

"None at all," he replied, his voice as steady as ever. "Just a few who didn't know when to stop fighting."

"YOU BASTARDS!" screamed a Dutch-accented voice.

Haytham glanced over to the prisoners. One in particular, twice with twice as many men pinning him in place and a wicked slice through one eye, struggled fruitlessly against his captors. Even from across the room, Haytham could see how the man's fingers and wrists were bent at alarming angles, clearly broken.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" he screamed, lurching forward alarmingly. The men holding him shouted and dug their heels into the floor, pulling him back just in time.

Raising an eyebrow, Haytham tucked his hands behind his back. His blood was still up, pounding through his veins, and he had to force himself not to flick out his hidden blades. Slitting the man's throat wouldn't get him anywhere, and judging by his clothes, he probably was high enough up the smuggler chain-of-command to be worth torturing for information.

"I take that that was one of them?" he said lightly to Pitcairn.

"Aye," he replied, and sighed heavily. "Killed several of our men before I managed to break his hands. I'm not looking forward to having to inform those men's families."

Haytham looked back towards him and took note of the hollow look on the man's face. It was odd; he would have thought a soldier would have been inured to the suffering of others. But he supposed that someone who carelessly threw his men's lives away in the meatgrinder of battle would have never have become as popular with his men as Pitcairn was.

Gently, Haytham patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry," he said, "The Order takes care of its own. Their families will be compensated for their deaths."

The strained look on his face eased slightly, and he nodded jerkily. "Thank you," he said kindly, "I'm afraid I'm not so good at dealing with the more delicate emotions."

"Mmm," Haytham hummed. Looking back at the struggling Dutchman, he watched dispassionately as he was cracked across the back of his head with the butt of a rifle. His struggles only lessened for a second, but that was all that was needed for a length of chain to be wound around his wrists. "He looks like a leader. Interrogate him first. It will break the other prisoners faster to see him - "

Something glinted around the loud Dutchman's neck. Narrowing his eyes, Haytham stalked towards him. As he drew closer, the Dutchman snarled like a rabid animal, spittle tracing its way down his chin. Haytham grimaced and resigned himself to scrubbing his hands clean in a rainwater barrel before he got home. Plunging his hand down the prisoner's grimy white shirt, he delicately pulled out a small chain with a pendant. A pendant that he recognized.

The symbol of the Assassins.

He let his lips twitch into an amused smirk as he looked up into the Dutchman's eyes and watched them widen.

"Really now," he said, tearing the necklace off and letting it dangle in front of the man's face, "when are you Assassins going to learn to hide your allegiences?"

A small flicker crossed the man's face, confirming Haytham's hypothesis. This was indeed an Assassin in front of him.

Turning, he tucked the necklace into his pocket.

"Charles," he said, "pick out a few of your more vicious men. It appears that we've caught ourselves an Assassin; he'll need extra pursuasion."

His second-in-command beamed. "I know just the man," he said happily, and turned to presumably go get him.

Checking the other prisoners revealed no more hidden Assassins. Just desperate men that happened to be on the wrong side of the law and of their little war. After that came decisions as to who to let go, who to keep for interrogation, and who to put down, decisions that could be left to a few of the more promising young Templars such as Charles. Haytham left the warehouse with a spring in his step. Even if he had not been able to fight anyone, the night had proven to be a fruitful one. On top of all that, he would be home before sunrise, and would not have to be made a liar to his son.

"Oi, boss!"

Damn. So much for getting home early.

Turning, Haytham greeted the younger man. "Thomas," he said, keeping his voice even, "something the matter."

The boy hesitated, and Haytham mentally groaned. If he was being kept from home due to some request for a bonus...

"Not...quite, boss," he said, "jest somethin' I saw out of the corner of my eye during the attack."

Wonderful.

"I could have sworn I saw a hood, that's all."

That got Haytham's attention.

"Where?" he demanded.

Hickey turned and pointed to certain section of particularly high roofs.

"Right there, but it disappeared pretty fast. Looked like they didn't want a fight, but-"

"But, we should brace ourselves for retaliation," Haytham said, narrowing his eyes. Damn, damn, damn. Just another thing he'd have to stay alert for. He had hoped that they'd be able to at least press their advantage in this district for a few days uninterrupted. It looked like it was not to be, however.

For a moment, he wavered in place. Part of him knew that he should stay and look for the Assassin. Depending on how long ago the sighting had taken place, it was possible that the Assassin was still nearby, and having two to interrogate would be an excellent way to make sure that the information they got from the Dutch assassin was legitimate.

The rest of him, though, was quick to point out that such a thing was unlikely. With such an attack on one of their money sources, it was far more likely that they escaped Assassin had rushed off to inform the leader of the Boston cell of the smuggler's fall rather than stuck around.

"Well then," he said, turning back to Thomas, "warn the others to stay sharp for the next few days."

The boy's face fell. Haytham rolled his eyes and took pity on him. Raising his hand, he cut off Thomas' complaints before they could start.

"Fine, tell Johnson so that he can warn the others. Then you can go off and do whatever it is you do to celebrate."

Thomas' face lit up, and he nearly skipped away. Shaking his head, Haytham finally left, eager to be home.

 

* * *

 

The house was silent as he slipped through the kitchen door. He used that particular door after late nights so as to avoid curious neighbours, and had done so on several previous occasions. Tonight though, he paused just inside the doorway and flicked out a blade.

Something was wrong.

Looking around the darkened kitchen, nothing appeared to be out of place. It was clean, with the fire banked so that Mrs. Potts would have just a little less work to do in the morning. There were no jars out of place or utensils on the ground. But the hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and such hunches had never steered him wrong before. Switching over to his special vision, he crept forward through the house, scanning for any sign of red.

The only light in the hallway off of the kitchen was from the moon streaming through the window. The plush carpeting on the floor swallowed the sounds of Haytham's footsteps as he snuck towards his study. He knew that if there was an intruder, that was the most likely place for them to have gone to.

On the ground floor with a window facing off of the street, filled to the brim with important-seeming paperwork and expensive-looking knick-knacks, it was perfect for burglars to slip in. Haytham should know, he made it like that on purpose. For as well as being a tempting entry point for intruders, it was fairly isolated from the rest of the house, with only the one window and the one door as exit points, making it also the perfect place to trap, interrogate and kill any intruders that succumbed to temptation. The paperwork was also a trap; despite looking at first glance like it was full of coded details on the Templar Order, it was in actual fact a mixture of his normal, non-Templar-related business documents and coded gibberish. Actual Templar paperwork was stored in a hidden room off of his bedroom, with the door slyly placed in the back of his armoire.

Upon reaching the door, he wished not for the first time that he had been blessed with his father's ability to see through walls with their family's special sight. As it was, he had to make do with more mundane means of figuring out if someone was waiting to ambush him.

Immediately, he dismissed peeking through the keyhole. He had learned early on through Assassin horror stories the sorts of objects and substances that could be forced through a keyhole to blind whoever was looking through it. Instead, Haytham gently pressed his ear to the wood and stilled his breathing, straining his ears.

Nothing.

Still wary, he slowly turned the well-oiled knob and cracked open the door, peering in.

All appeared to be as it should. The papers were packed away in the drawers of his desk, the key dangling temptingly from one of them. The knick-knacks he had on his desk were still in their usual places, with the fine dust that he kept around them undisturbed under the moonlight. Sweeping his gaze around the room, Haytham risked opening the door fully to better check for signs of a disturbance.

_Thunk._

Looking down, Haytham realized that he had just opened the door on his housekeeper's head.

Above him, he heard the unmistakeable sound of a child's yell coming from his bedroom.

The world fell away around him, and Haytham flew.

Like an owl, silent and deadly, he raced down the hallway to the house's main staircase and was up it before he could blink. Cold rage and terror coated his bones, urging him to go faster.

Mrs Potts had put his son to bed in his room. His son had a First Civilization artifact around his neck. His son was a four year old boy incapable of fighting off an adult. His son could be bleeding to death as he moved, for the crime of having him as his father.

The door banged against the wall. The bed was empty, the covers tangled and lying on the floor. With his special eyes, he could see drops of blood on the carpet. And the window was open, its curtains blowing gently in the breeze.

Haytham couldn't breathe. All of his training left him, and he rushed to the window with no thought of traps. Two red figures were rapidly dashing away. One of them had a small golden bundle over one shoulder. As he watched, the red figures, red as blood, red as rage, jumped onto waiting horses. Kicking them in the sides, the horses reared and took off like bullets towards the main mass of buildings that was Boston proper.

Haytham was already on the ground and running after them before he whistled for his horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, please don't be afraid to comment! I won't bite, and they keep me going while writing! Even just a 'good job' helps me keep going!


	6. The Bear Man

_Ratonhnhake:ton was a good boy. He was good for rake:ni and Mrs Potts so he went to bed and shut his eyes so that rake:ni would be back sooner because he said that he'd be back by sunrise and Ratonhnhake:ton really wanted him back like he wanted ista to be back._

_But then the men came into the room. Ratonhnhake:ton thought that it was rake:ni at first but when he opened his eyes he saw that it was two men and one was tall and whiter than any colonist he had seen through the bedroom window, while the other had dark hair and was really short and built like the bear that (had) lived outside of the village, but both were dressed in light grey and white, not like a bear at all._

_The tall white one had seen him and tried to take rake:ni's necklace from him, but rake:ni had told Ratonhnhake:ton that it had helped him meet ista so Ratonhnhake:ton bit him and he yelled, and then he smacked Ratonhnhake:ton and made his head hurt. Then the two of them went still,and then they grabbed Ratonhnhake:ton and jumped out the window onto horses and started to ride away. Ratonhnhake:ton had twisted, trying to get free, and then the white one said a bad word and made him eat something yucky from his belt that made Ratonhnhake:ton feel weak and hot and dizzy._

_Now they were inside a house, and the two men were arguing and saying bad words at each other. Ratonhnhake:ton couldn't really tell what the words were, just that they were bad. Rake:ni would probably be glad, he alwayscomplained about Mr. Hickey swearing after he had left and he thought that Ratonhnhake:ton couldn't hear._

_The dark one was alone now, pacing around the room. Ratonhnhake:ton could smell his sweat. It was sour. Ratonhnhake:ton's mouth was sour too, and sticky, making him cough. He couldn't breathe._

_Then the dark one was swearing again, and turning him onto his side. Ratonhnhake:ton felt something trickle out of his mouth that was hot and sticky and wet and yucky. It came out of his nose too, and his eyes like tears._

_The white one was back, and holding something gold in his arms that glowed like the longhouses' fire. The two men were yelling again, then the glowing yellow thing was wrapped around him and something slammed. The men were gone, but then there was another man standing in the corner that hadn't been there before._

_He had a beard, and looked a lot more like a bear than the other two had, but was wearing weird flowing clothes like in the sketches of that book about the colonists' old gods._

_"Oh, l-l-l-little wolf," he said, "you n-need to g-get up."_

_He talked funny, all stops and starts and echoing, but sounded a little like ista when she was talking to him when he was sick._

_"L-little W-wolfff," the bear-man said, "y-you need to g-get up. You c-can't st-tay here. Your d-daddy issss l-looking for y-you."_

_Rake:ni. Rake:ni was looking for him? Ratonhnhake:ton began to feel better._

_"Y-yes," said the bear man. He reached out a hand and placed it on Ratonhnhake:ton's forehead, like ista had when she was checking for a fever when everyone in the village had been getting sick._

_"But he wo-wo-won't be able to fiiiiiind you if you st-t-tay here."_

_Ratonhnhake:ton's head throbbed and his arms shook, but he managed to sit up. His face was wet with drool and snot and tears. The glowing yellow thing was a blanket, and Ratonhnhake:ton wondered why it was glowing._

_"L-little Wolfffff," said the bear man again, "y-y-you mussst g-go!" He was standing by a door, and Ratonhnhake:ton slid off of the couch that he'd been lying on. His legs weren't working though, and he had to crawl towards the bear man._

_It took a long time, especially since the bear man kept disappearing and then appearing a little further away, and Ratonhnhake:ton wanted to cry but he had to be brave and keep going because rake:ni was looking for him and eventually he was outside under the stars and standing and the bear man was leaning over him._

_"You haaaave t-t-to use your sssspecial eyes, L-little Wolf," the bear man said, and Ratonhnhake:ton was a good boy so he obeyed, and the world went funny._

 

* * *

 

Thomas grunted and grinned fiercely as he emptied himself into the squealing woman beneath him as she clawed at his back. Rolling off of her and leaving her panting, he reached for the ale that he had left on the bedside table and took a swig. It burned a delicious trail down his throat. Damn that stuff had been worth the money.

Catching her breath, the woman, whose name was Kitty and was his favourite at this particular establishment, sat up and began to get out of bed. Thomas dropped his flagon on the floor and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back into his lap.

"'Ey, darlin'," he said, wrapping his arms around waist and sneaking a grope at one lolling tit, "where ya goin'? Leavin' ol' Hickey so fast?"

She giggled and nuzzled at his jaw.

"You're insatiable," she murmured, cupping his cheek.

"I paid fer the whole night," he said, ducking his head to nip at an earlobe, "an' I intend t' get my money's worth."

Giving his jaw a wet kiss, she pulled away again.

"Y'will," she promised, standing up, "but first, how about a refill?"

She leaned down to grab his dropped flagon and got back up, waggling her behind enticingly. Thomas felt his cock twitch, despite his recent orgasm.

Damn minx.

As she straightened up, Hickey got out of the bed and crossed the room with two powerful strides. Grabbing her hips, he ignored her yelp and ground against the perfect peach of her ass.

"Nah," he said, his lips curling into a lazy grin, "I don' think that's necessary."

Turning her around, he pushed her up against the door and pinned her there before lowering his head to suck a bruise onto her throat.

"Thomas!" she gasped, arching up against him. Her legs parted as he slid a hand up the insides of her thigh and he buried two fingers inside her wetness.

She sighed and closed her eyes and began to move her hips against his hand as he started to thrust his fingers in and out of her while rubbing her clit with his thumb. Lifting his mouth from her neck, he admired the mark he had made and licked his lips. The little gasps and squeals that the minx was making as he played with her were music to his ears. He was still too sensitive to get hard, but watching a woman dance on his fingers was good enough entertainment while he waited for his cock to recover enough to fuck her through the door.

A loud yell made the rhythm of his fingers falter. Kitty opened her eyes and twisted her head as if she could look through the solid wood of the door.

"Wha...what was that?" she asked, panting and still rolling her hips.

Thomas wanted to say that it was nothing and go back to making his Kitty purr. The rest of him was remembering the last time he dismissed a strange noise after an attack on the Assassins. The scar on his thigh throbbed from when one of the bastards had gotten him with their damn hidden blade.

"Goddamnit," he growled, pulling his fingers out of the woman. "I gotta check this."

Grabbing his trousers, he roughly pulled them on while ignoring Kitty fluttering around the room behind him. With his pistol in hand and sword-belt buckled around his hips, he opened the door and strode out, ready for a fight.

The shrieking was even louder outside of the room, hitting Thomas like a slap to the face. Sticking close to the wall, he made his way down the hallway with his finger on the trigger.

As he got closer to the stairs, he heard the loud, squeaky voice of the house's madame rise above the screaming.

"Shut yer fuckin' gobs, you silly chits!"

Peeking around the corner and down at the lower floor, Thomas saw Miss Queen crack one of the whores across the face with the back of her hand. Alright, if she was feeling calm enough to smack her workers around, it probably wasn't an Assassin.

Relaxing, he stepped out completely and began to make his way down the creaking stairs.

"Oi, Queenie," he shouted above the din, "Wot's with all the screamin'? Yer scarin' my little Kitty."

Sending off the last whimpering whore with a sharp slap to the back of the head, the red-haired and hard-faced woman turned and simpered at him.

"Why, nothin' at all, dearie," she squeaked, "jest a little forest rat sneakin' in. You know how girlies get when they see mice."

Jerking her head, she gestured to a small, crumpled figure in a filthy nightshirt sitting with its back to a chair. Thomas smirked and walked forward.

"Oh? Need me to do some rattin' fer ya then, Queenie?"

She snorted and dropped the simpering act.

"Hell no," she said, "I can't afford to keep letting you have freebies. I can do it myself."

"T'ms."

Thomas whipped his head around. The fuck was that? It sounded like the damn brat had -

The dark-haired head lifted and Thomas stiffened.

"Thomasss," Haytham's kid slurred, "hurtsss."

His pupils were so damn wide his eyes looked totally black, and what looked like the remnants of vomit was crusted around the corners of his mouth. Shakily, the kid tried to get to his feet. And failed.

Thomas dove to catch him, barely keeping his head from cracking against the wooden floor. Shifting the kid's limp body around, he soon had him cradled in his arms like one of his siblings back in Ireland.

"Oi," yelped Queenie, "we're tryin' to get rid of him, not cuddle the bastard!"

"Shut yer trap," Thomas snarled back. The kid had clearly been drugged, and judging from the blood staining his nightshirt, it probably hadn't been with his cooperation. Thomas knew that his boss was cold, but he also knew that the bossman gave more than a few shits about his kid. Hell, just bringing him back from his Injun village showed at least three shits, with feeding and clothing him adding another two. There was no way in hell he would ever willingly let someone fuck up his own flesh and blood like this. Fuck. This probably meant that the Assassins were already striking back over that attack earlier.

Tearing his eyes away from the kid, he looked back over his shoulder at the madame.

"Get a doctor," he snapped, "this is my boss' kid."

 

* * *

 

_Ratonhnhake:ton could feel the feathers growing out of his arms and the bones breaking to become wings so that he could fly and it hurt bad enough to make him cry but fly he did up up up above the colonists' roofs and the steeples of the churches and the people that glowed dull white and sickly red like a disease._

_Wet warmth dripped down his face and he was crying but he didn't want to he wasn't a baby and he was trying to find his rake:ni and his rake:ni was big and brave and he didn't want to look like a little baby in front of him or he might decide he's too much trouble and go away and leave and then Ratonhnhake:ton would be alone again and eagles weren't supposed to cry._

_Shaking he started to move forward and then his wings failed and he was tumbling_

_tumbling_

_tumbling_

_and then he was lying in the mud with the sour smell of sickness in his nostrils and the bear man was standing over him again and stroking his hair but Ratonhnhake:ton couldn't feel his fingers through his hair._

_"Shhh, shhh," the bear man hummed, "d-d-don't tryyyy to m-move, Little W-wolf. Y-you're eyes have g-gotten stronger."_

_Someone was whining like the wolf pup ista had found once and let him hold ista had said it was abandoned for being small and just wanted it's ista and Ratonhnhake:ton had loved it and loved it but one day he had woken up and it was cold and stiff and ista had had to hold him for hours while he cried and he was the wolf pup here he wanted his ista and rake:ni and everyone_

_"L-little Wolf, g-get up!"_

_Sobbing, Ratonhnhake:ton heaved himself to his feet and flew again, and saw just more pus-white and blood-red people but there at the edge of his vision he saw blue like his ista and rake:ni and he cried even harder he didn't care that he was being a baby because there was blue all he had to do was get to it._

_The bear man was standing in front of him, gesturing that Ratonhnhake:ton should follow him and he half-flapped, half-hopped after him because he was a bird and that's what birds did when they couldn't fly didn't they. He didn't know where he was because all the walls were rising up up up and surrounding him and he had to fly carefully or he'd hit them and hurt his wings scraping the feathers away but the bear man was good and showed him where to go, to get to the blue until a door was looming so high and it opened and people were yelling but then he heard Mr Hickey and he felt his beak change and soften just so he could smile and large hands were holding him and the lights were too bright too bright too bright_

 

* * *

 

Luckily, it turned out that Queenie kept a doctor on call for the whorehouse. Paid him in a mix of cash and free fucks from the girls and lucky Thomas, he was getting his weekly payment that night.

Unluckily, the bastard took his sweet time getting to Queenie's office.

Entering the office, he was still lacing up his trousers and had one stocking thrown over his shoulder. Hickey glowered at him from his seat on Queenie's couch, taking a swig from his fresh tankard of ale. If the old fuck hadn't been closer and the kid hadn't been pretty clearly drugged half to death, Thomas probably would have just taken the kid and run him over to Benny.

As it was, he had to deal with the fucker looking down his nose at his shirtless state and clicking his tongue.

"Oh dear," he sighed, shaking his head mockingly, "I'm afraid, Miss Queen, that our deal was only for children still in the womb. If you want me to start dealing with other customer's byblows, they'll have to come to me themsel-"

Thomas' grip on his temper snapped. Without jostling the boy, he put his drink down, got up and slammed his fist into the fucker's jaw hard enough to knock him to the ground.

"Listen, fuckwit," he snarled at the now-wide-eyed man, "this kid ain't mine. He's my boss', and my boss ain't the type to just shrug off someone fuckin' with his flesh and blood.

You don't treat his kid, and he'll hunt you down. An' believe me," he said, looming over the doctor, "I'd gladly help."

And god damn it, wasn't that the truth. Thomas could steal, lie, cheat, even slit a man's throat without blinking. But even a thug like him needed some standards, and kids were his. Fuckers like this doctor and Benny made his blood boil. Too many memories of being turned away after his da had had a losing streak at the card table and taken it out on his and his sister's hides, just because they had no money, had made Thomas a violent man when it came to greedy doctors.

Looking at the shaking lump of flesh sitting on the ground and staring at him with wide eyes, he sneered.

"Now you gonna play nice, or am I gonna hafta convince you some more?"

The doctor scrambled to his feet, waving his hands frantically.

"No, no," he chanted, "I'll do it. Just lay him down on the couch."

With Thomas looming over him, the doctor was quick to kneel down beside the kid and wipe away the crud that was crusted on his face. Twisting his head from side to side and checking his eyes, the doctor seemed to settle into a professional detachment.

Turning back to Thomas, he asked, "Do you know what he was drugged with?"

Thomas shook his head. "Nah," he said, "kid showed up like that. I know his dad hates stuff like that, so its not like he'd find it lying around at home either. Someone drugged him."

The doctor pressed his lips together and turned back to the kid.

"Well," he said heavily, "at least he has vomited already. If I don't know what it is that he was drugged with, there's not much I can do."

Thomas turned the looming up a notch.

"B-but one of the things I can do," the man stuttered, "is induce more vomiting to make sure as much of it is out of his system as possible."

Thomas raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well then," he said, cocking his head, "get to it."

"I need to get my bag."

"Then get it and come back."

The man didn't need any encouragement. He scampered out of the room like a rat with a terrier at his heels, slamming the door behind him. Growling, Thomas rubbed his face and thought. Goddamnit, he had thought that his bit of thinking for the day was done after the raid on the smugglers.

Clapping his hands together, he pointed towards Queenie.

"Oi," he growled, "you got anyone you can spare to go get the kid's daddy?"

The woman looked up from where she had been trailing her fingers over the kid's forehead and frowned, thinking.

"...Yeah," she said slowly, "yeah I do. There's a stableboy out back who sleeps here."

"Go get 'im then, tell him he's lookin' fer a Haytham Kenway, lives close to Beacon Hill."

Queenie nodded sharply and dashed out of the office.

Groaning, Thomas sat back down on the couch and leaned forward to put his head in his hands. How had his night turned into this? He didn't even want to think how Haytham would react if he let his kid die. Probably beat his brains out against the nearest wall. Charlie may have liked to ramble about how elegant and neat Kenway's fighting was, but Thomas was wiser. He had seen how brutal the man could be in a fight, even snapping the necks of those already down with a well-placed stomp.

The door swung open again and the doctor rushed back in, his stocking still trailing from his shoulder and his bag in his hand. Ignoring Thomas entirely, he kneeled down beside the kid and began to rummage through his bag with one hand, tilting the kid's head towards him.

Pulling out a small black something, he glanced back up at Thomas.

"Do you have any sort of drink with you? It will help wash the medicine down."

Thomas trailed his eyes around the room until they settled on his tankard of ale. Grabbing it, he thrust it towards the doctor hastily, ignoring the splash that landed on his wrist. The doctor took it and after a brief sniff, appeared to deem it worthy for what he was going to use it for.

Placing it down beside him, he wrapped his arms around the kid and made him sit up. His head lolled disturbingly. Prying his jaw open, the doctor placed the black thing in the boy's mouth and poured a little of the ale in after it before closing it. With the back of his fingers, he gently rubbed the front of the kids throat until he convulsively swallowed.

"Alright," said the doctor, leaning back on his haunches, "we'll need a bucket now for him to vomit into."

The kid spasmed.

The doctor and Thomas looked at each other, eyes wide.

"NOW!"

Dashing out of Queenie's office, Thomas looked around wildly for a bucket. There was nothing in the main room, but kicking down the door to the nearest room, he saw that there was one by the bed. Grabbing it and ignoring the room's inhabitants yelling at him, he dashed back to the office just in time to shove it under the kid's jaw and catch the first wave.

The kid shook like he was having a fit as he vomited wave after wave, until finally only a trickle of bile slipped from between his lips. The sour stench of sickness filled the room as he fell back against the couch, still trembling and with his eyes closed.

Wrinkling his nose, Thomas opened the window above Queenie's desk and emptied the bucket. Good riddance. Turning back, he saw that the doctor was hovering over the kid again, touching his face and squinting.

"Wot you doing?" he asked.

The doctor turned to him, his face pinched and a trapped, frightened look in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

_his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes they hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt the sun was burning him sending bright arrows to stab at him while clouds wound around him like chains pulling him_

_down down down down_

_he was going to hit the ground and break apart like a clay pot like a log that had burned too long in the fire he was burning_

_b u r n i n g_

_a_

_n_

_d_

_f a l l in g_

_a n d h e co u l dn' t_

_b r ea t h e_

 

* * *

 

"He's not breathing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that the figure Connor talks to isn't too incoherent; but cookies if you figure out which two characters from the series I've merged for it!
> 
> As ever, I love feedback so feel free to comment!


	7. Awkward Bonding With Your Brother-in-law

Haytham had never regretted his lack of tracking experience more than right now. When he was being trained by the English Assassins, he had been able to rely on informants for information as to where his targets would be. After Reginald had helped him to join the Templar Order, it had been much the same: he would be told by someone where his target would be, and then all he had to do was show up, kill the target and escape. However, he was finding now that this system did not lend itself well to teaching killers how to find someone by themselves.

While he had been able to follow the Assassins into the city, he had soon lost track of them in the narrow, turning streets of Boston. Eventually, he had found their horses, wandering along the side of the road and lipping at the grass there, their reins dragging on the ground.

That was where he was now, standing by the fence that lined the road and staring at the horses, helplessly clenching and unclenching his fists. Breathing deeply, he tried to calm down and think. Without horses, they would be slowed down. There weren't many horses just wandering around loose in the city, or easily accessible. It was unlikely that with a struggling child they would be able to pick any stable locks without attracting more attention than they should. And because they had to carry Ratonhnhake:ton, they wouldn't be able to take to the rooftops either. So they would have to use alleyways and back roads to get to whatever safehouse that they were heading to with his son.

Alright. Since he didn't have to carry any dead weight, he could take to the roofs. That would allow him to cover more ground faster than the Assassin's would likely be able to. Pressing his lips together, he turned to head to the nearest building and an arrow whistled past his chest, embedding itself in the wooden fence.

Before the sound had faded from his ears, he was already dashing towards the building that the arrow had come from. Looking up, he just spotted a dark figure slinging a bow over its shoulders and turning to run. His blood felt icy and hot in his veins. If he hadn't turned at the exact right time, that arrow would have pierced his heart. That sort of accuracy, combined with the weapon, could point only towards one thing: an Assassin.

Scrambling on top of of the roof, he saw the tall figure with a bow in his hand jumping to the next house over. He tore across the roof after him, leaving loosened tiles in his wake.

The man was fast; far faster than most. Agile too. Haytham nearly lost him a few times as he chased him across Boston. If he hadn't had four years to familiarize himself with the layout of the city, he undoubtedly would never have caught the man. As it was, though, the man's luck ran out on top of North Church. A tile was loose, and as he stepped on it, it slid out from underneath him. Even a rooftop away from the man, Haytham could could hear the crack of his head striking the roof.

Haytham didn't let him regather himself. Quickly jumping onto the roof himself, he grabbed the man by his shirt and slammed him into the church's steeple.

"Where is your safehouse?" he snarled, pressing his hips up against the man to keep him still. "Why did you take my son?"

"Because you are not worthy of him!" the man roared back, headbutting him.

Pain lanced through Haytham's skull and he stumbled back. He barely managed to dodge the knife swipe that came next, a burning line tracing its way across his jaw even as he moved away. Hissing from the pain, he slid out his own blades from his wrists and got his first good look at his attacker.

The first thought to cross his mind was irritation that the Assassins had been having more luck in recruiting natives than his own Order. The second was that the man looked familiar. Half-crouched, the man's muscle's bulged underneath his deer-hide shirt and moccasins, hinting at the strength in his body. His hair was pulled back in a be-feathered topknot, a few strands escaping and falling in his eyes. Holding his long knife in front of his chest, its point sticking out accusingly towards Haytham's chest, he bounced lightly on his feet. Despite the large red mark on his forehead, he was clearly ready to fight.

With the both of them armed, they began to slowly circle each other, ready for the other to lunge as Haytham wracked his brains, trying to remember where he had seen the man. Nothing was coming to mind, only a nagging feeling of deja vu.

"I am not worthy, you say," he finally said, trying to goad the man into revealing more, "now tell me, who are you to judge me on my parenting skills?"

The man growled and lunged at Haytham. Skipping out of the way, he retracted the blade on one wrist and slammed the heel of his hand against the side of the native man's head, sending him staggering.

"Let me repeat myself," he said, "who are you to judge me on my parenting skills for my son?"

The man glared at him, his teeth bared in a snarl, looking nothing more than like a rabid wolf.

"His uncle."

Ah. Now Haytham remembered the man. He had been at the longhouse with Ratonhnhake:ton, glaring at Haytham all through negotiations with the Clan Mother and prowling around like a mountain lion. When the Clan Mother had agreed to let Haytham take Ratonhnhake:ton, he had burst into fierce chattering in Kanienkaha, clearly arguing against the deal. He had been silenced by an imperious hand gesture from the Clan Mother, but it was obvious now to Haytham that the man had refused to let the matter lie.

So not an Assassin. Haytham very nearly turned to leave. If the man wasn't an Assassin, then he was just another obstacle to finding his son. Unfortunately, with that knife, he didn't trust the other man not to stab him in the back as he tried to escape.

"And what, precisely, gave you the idea that I was a poor parent?" Haytham asked. With the mystery of the man's identity solved, he found himself now trying to remember the man's name. Perhaps being addressed properly would help defuse the situation.

"No one should be left with a man like you."

The man lunged forward again, slashing wildly with his knife. Haytham dodged and danced around the swipes, flicking out with his own blades whenever possible. Each strike was blocked. Haytham found himself gritting his teeth as the fight went on. Each moment spent fighting this man was one moment more where his son's kidnappers were getting further and further away.

Finally, he saw his chance and surged forward, smashing his fist straight into the man's stomach. The native man wheezed and staggered back, dropping his knife. Another quick blow to his jaw sent him to his knees, and a kick saw him hitting the roof tiles.

While the man was still wheezing for breath, Haytham pressed his foot down onto his chest.

"So tell me," he said, breathing heavily and barely keeping a hold on his own anger, "what type of man am I like? Precisely?"

The native spat at him.

Narrowing his eyes, Haytham pressed down harder, making the man gasp and grit his own teeth.

"Must I repeat myself?"

The sheer venom in the man's eyes as he looked up at Haytham through his hair was startling.

"One who violated my sister," he hissed, peeling his lips back from his teeth.

Brown hands lashed out, wrapping around the leg Haytham had pressed to his chest and twisted. Taken by surprise, he was unable to keep himself from falling, and quick as a cat the native was on him, wrapping his hands around his wrists and pinning him to the roof.

"One who left her pregnant, a pale shadow of herself."

He lowered his head until they were nearly nose to nose.

"One who stole that child away the first chance he got."

Haytham saw red.

Slamming his head into the native's, he tore himself free from his grip and attacked. The native man may have been good, but he was nothing to an Assassin-trained Templar Grandmaster. Blood blossomed across his chest from his blades, and bruises flowered on his face from Haytham's knuckles. For every blow that he managed to block, three got through.

With blood-coated knuckles, he slammed the bloodied man against the church steeple again, this time pressing an arm across his throat. So close that their breaths mingled, he growled into his face.

"I have never violated a woman in my life. What Ziio and I had was mutual and consensual, and I will not let you spit on that with your baseless accusations."

The native barked out a laugh, spattering Haytham with a bloody mist.

"Mutual? Consensual?!" he sneered, "Then why, when my sister returned from your people's war, was she a silent shadow of herself? Why did she refuse to speak of who her son's father was?"

"I don't know!" Haytham roared. "I don't know why she left me! I don't know why she never told me of our son! I don't know why she never spoke of me to her family! But I swear to you, I loved her before we ever laid together, and I never forced her to do anything that she did not wish to do!"

He was shaking. With a growl of disgust, he threw the man down onto the shingles and stepped back, a snarl still twisting his lips. Breathing in deeply, never taking his eyes away from the native's, he centered himself. His emotions were spinning wildly out of control, and he could not afford that at this time. It was almost dizzying, after years of repression, the intensity of his feelings. It reminded him of when he had been with Ziio. When he had been with her, he had felt as light and carefree as a young boy again. Everything had seemed possible.

But no. He clamped down on the memories of his time with her before they had a chance to escape the prison he had put them in. After that was done, he took a hold of his emotions, one by one, and shoved them in there with the memories. He did not have time for any of this. He had a son to track down.

If he even could. He barely kept the grimace off of his face at that thought. The trail had to be near icy by now, thanks to this fool's distraction.

Wait.

"Tell me," he said, leaning in close to the man, "how good are your tracking skills?"

 

* * *

 

The man had very nearly attacked Haytham again after he revealed his son's fate; only the reminder of what would happen if they didn't find him kept him from forcing Haytham to throw him off the church.

Now, they were standing back where Haytham had first lost the trail, with the native inspecting what, in Haytham's eyes, looked like a pile of churned up mud, and with Haytham himself standing uselessly to one side and wringing his hands.

"By the way," Haytham said, squeezing the knuckles of his left hand, "I'm afraid that I did not catch your name back at the village. Might I have it?"

The native grunted and looked over his shoulder at him with narrowed eyes for a second before turning back to the churned-up muck.

"Otetieni."

Standing up, he brushed his hands off on his deerskin trousers and pointed down an alleyway.

"They went that way."

He strode off without a backwards glance to see if Haytham was following. Rather like Ziio, then. Haytham was forced to trot to catch up with him as he loped along, his stride eating up the ground.

The travelled in silence for some time together. Otetieni would occasionally pause and crouch down to get a better look at some small detail that completely escaped Haytham's eye, then point in a different direction.

This went on for some time until finally Haytham couldn't contain his curiousity.

"Might I ask you something?" he asked.

Otetieni looked up from where he was inspecting a mess of horse and footprints and brushed his hair from his eyes.

"What was it that made you think that I violated Ziio?"

"Like I said," he said, "she came back from the war a much quieter woman. She wouldn't speak of who had put a child in her belly, not even to our mother." He shrugged and looked back down at the dirt. "Things happen to our women when they spend time with white men."

"You did not think her capable of defending herself?"

"Doesn't matter how well you can defend yourself; white men don't play fair, and they only have to get lucky once."

Haytham pressed his lips together. He couldn't argue against that. Considering just how common the rape of native women was, the man's conclusions were logical. He couldn't know that as a Templar, the violation of the weak was precisely the sort of thing that Haytham fought against. But still, he couldn't help but feel personally insulted.

"Well," he said, "I know it's not much, but what I had with your sister was consensual. Whatever I did to chase her away, or make her believe that I would not be a good father to our child, I do not know. But I regret it deeply."

"And believe me," he said, looking the native man in the eye, "I would have done anything to make her stay. And I am trying to be the best possible father to Ratonhnhake:ton."

Otetieni's gaze was heavy, taking Haytham in from head to toe. Haytham watched as he pressed his lips together and turned back to the muddy road.

"It doesn't matter now," he said, his voice gruff. "We can't ask her anything now."

Haytham placed one hand over the other. The truth of the statement sent a dull pain through his heart. It was impossible to ask her anything now, or see her again. He'd never know how she really felt about carrying Ratonhnhake:ton. How she felt about him. How she felt about their son.

"You are wondering if she loved Ratonhnhake:ton."

Haytham looked up from his hands. Otetieni was inspecting some bushes a few steps away. Still not looking at him, the native reached out and tugged at a leaf, narrowing his eyes at some small detail that Haytham couldn't pick out.

"Do not worry. For all of my sister's fierceness in battle, she still possessed a loving heart. Ratonhnhake:ton only knew comfort and love from her."

"I do not doubt that," Haytham replied, looking back down at his hands and flexing them. "He would not grieve as he does if they hadn't loved each other."

They travelled in silence after that, eventually climbing onto the roofs of the buildings surrounding them. What else could Haytham say? He knew to his core that he had been correct in his assessment of his son's grief. Ratonhnhake:ton's nightmares, the agony in his voice when he spoke of Ziio, his immediate fascination with the First Civilization pendant that Haytham had given to him that night all pointed towards a close relationship with her.

On top of a roof, with Haytham leaning against a chimney with his chin to his chest and crossed arms, Otetieni spoke again.

"They were each other's world, you know."

Haytham didn't stir.

"I don't doubt it."

"Everything she did, she did for him."

"Yes," Haytham said quietly, "Ratonhnhake:ton's told me some stories of their time together. How she taught him English with one of my journals."

He could have sworn that he saw the other man's lips twitch into a brief smile at that.

"I see," he said. "Did he tell you of his attempts to get out of his lessons?"

Haytham blinked.

"Er, no, actually."

The deep, rich chuckle that emanated from the native man flowed like honey.

"He could get quite creative. The entire village got dragged into looking for him more than once."

Alright, Haytham's curiosity was officially piqued.

"Oh?" he said, tilting his head and lifting a brow, "Now how did a small child like him manage that?"

Otetieni hummed and scratched his chin.

"Ah, one time he disappeared for several hours, sending her into a fit looking for him. She was terrified that he had been attacked by some animal, and ended up convincing half the village to help her look."

His grin flashed in the darkness.

"It turned out that he had been hiding in the shallows of the lake, breathing through a hollowed-out reed. She was furious when she found out."

Haytham huffed in amusement and shook his head. For some reason, he could see his son doing that. As well behaved as he was with him, Haytham had come across Ratonhnhake:ton more than once crouched in a small hiding place with a stolen pastry. Running away from a hated lesson was not a stretch of the imagination.

"She must get that from her. I was certainly always a well-behaved child."

"Oh really, Haythie?" An amused woman's voice rang out from above him. "I remember things quite differently."

Haytham had whirled away from the wall he had been leaning against and unsheathed his sword before he had fully processed where he had heard that voice before.

"Jenny," he breathed, looking up.

"Haythie," she replied mockingly from the top of the chimney she was perched on. "Out for a stroll on my roof this evening? Or," she said, her voice lowering, "are you out looking for someone? A little boy?"

Dressed in the white of a master Assassin, with only a few pale curls escaping her hood and a sword at her waist, the sight of her peaked hood and red sash brought home the fact that the Assassins had stolen his child. A red haze covered his vision as his heart began to pound, drowning out all other sounds.

Growling, he lunged.

 

* * *

 

Jenny was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she should have just stabbed Haytham instead of commenting on his childhood behaviour.

As it was, she was forced to jump off the chimney and onto her house's roof to avoid getting her feet amputated at the ankle. Twisting so that she landed facing her opponent, she was barely able to dodge his follow-up sword swing that nearly sliced open her eye.

Her mind raced as she stumbled back. She had come out onto the roof with some small hope that she would be able to reason with her little brother. Get him to understand that the Assassins didn't condone attacking children like Hiram and Daniel had.

The look of rage on his face at the sight of her smothered those hopes in the crib.

God _damn_ those two idiots, though!

When they had burst into the house carrying a small child that had clearly been drugged to the gills, she had almost been too relieved at their sudden appearance to be angry. They had disappeared for the last few days, completely ignoring her attempts to set up meetings with the important members of the Boston citizenry and making her worry that they had been found by some Templars. Their explanation of where they had gotten the child, though, took care of that emotional indecision. The little bastards had apparently felt that she wasn't sucking their cocks because she didn't think that they were skilled enough. That was true, but they had completely misread which of their skills she was skeptical of, and somehow come to the conclusion that the best way to earn her regard was to steal something from the Templar Grandmaster's house. And from their babbling, they had been surprised by the Grandmaster coming home earlier than expected. So instead of simply grabbing some important documents or somesuch, they had panicked and grabbed the Grandmaster's son. And of course, by the time she had finished reaming them out for their stupidity, the child had managed to disappear, perfectly topping off the shit sundae that had become her night.

So she had sent the two idiots out to find the kid again, woken her Assassin neighbour to warn the other Assassins cells in the city to take a vacation for a few weeks, and then suited up to go out and hopefully keep the Brotherhood from being purged from the city.

She had hoped that her appearance would calm Haytham down, or at least make him pause. They had been so close as children, after all, teaming up to get rid of her annoying suitors and playing pirates on the manor grounds. If he had at least paused, she could have pinned him and explained what had happened, set up a hostage exchange or something.

She had been wrong.

And now, she was frantically dodging her little brother's blade and trying to stay alive long enough to give the other Assassins in the city time to get away.

And by Jesus, Haytham wasn't making it easy. Sweat stinging in her eye, she hissed as his blade slithered against her ribs and made a red garden blossom along her side, barely blocking his next strike. As it was, the power behind it sent shocks of pain down to her shoulders.

When had he gotten so strong? When she had left with her new husband David to the Caribbean, he had still been only thirteen, a beanpole with knotted string for arms that she could beat with her eyes closed. Now he was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and thickly-muscled.

With a full-body shove, she finally managed to push him away for a moment so that she could breathe. With sweat dripping down her neck, she panted and tried to subtly shake some feeling back into her forearms. Across from her, Haytham had settled into a guarded stance, with narrow eyes and his non-dominant arm held ready to unsheathe his hidden blade.

Jenny had never felt her age as much as she did then. If they fought for much longer, she was going to get skewered. Her gaze darted around the roof, looking for anything that could tip the balance of the fight more in her favour.

Almost immediately, her eyes were drawn towards Haytham's new friend. From what she had heard around town, Haytham wasn't particularly close to any natives, despite having his minion William Johnson almost constantly in talks with them. Their body language had been rather tense when she had first come upon them as well, only relaxing when they started to talk about Haytham's son playing pranks on his mother. (And wouldn't she like to meet the woman that made a man of her little brother.)

As desperate as she was, it looked like the man was the weak link that she needed to throw Haytham off his game. Every second spent defending himself verbally was a second he wasn't physically fighting her.

"Hey, you!" she called out. "How much has Haytham told you?"

The man cocked his head and crossed his arms.

"Enough to know that you are the ones that stole my nephew from his bed."

Oh fuck her up the ass with a crucifix, a family member?! Gritting her teeth and keeping one eye on her little brother, she forged onward. She had nothing else.

"Believe me," she said with a bravado that she didn't feel, "that's probably the best thing we could have done for the boy. This man is not someone who should be trusted with a child's upbringing."

And oh, that appeared to hit a sore point. Haytham's eyes were slits and she could see his jaw clenching. The man, on the other hand, looked cautiously curious.

"And why would you say that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," Jenny said, baring her teeth, "you natives abhor traitors as much as colonists, don't you?"

Haytham's eyes widened and ooooh, yes, that was something the native man hadn't known, judging by the look he was giving her brother. His black eyebrows bunched together and pulling a knife out of nowhere, slid into a battle ready stance.

"What is she talking about, white man?" he said, a warning tone is his voice.

Haytham blinked rapidly, clearly thinking quickly on how to best to spin his betrayal of the Assassin Brotherhood, and that was when Jenny struck.

Darting forward she brought her sword up low, aiming to slide it in up under his ribcage and into his heart. Little brother or not, she was an Assassin and he was a Templar. She'd mourn him later.

Except he managed to block her blow with his own blade. Gritting her teeth, she flicked out her hidden blade and swiped at his face to keep him on the back foot. That at least struck true; red lines opened on his forehead and chin, rapidly welling up and dripping down his forehead.

Stumbling back, he was forced to close an eye as blood got in it, holding his sword and barely blocking Jenny's blows. She didn't let up and pressed forward, breaking through his defenses to stab at his weaknesses. Dark spots bloomed on his coat and trousers where her blade had struck, making him a garden of red and black roses.

Her blood pounding in her ears, she couldn't even feel the small injuries he managed to sneak past her guard. The excitement of battle drowned out everything except the opponent in front of her, even the fact that they were flesh and blood. Haytham had gone from her little brother to a sack of meat to be carved. She pushed him back and back, until they were dancing along the edge of the roof with the wind whistling in her ears.

This tunnel vision would be what she blamed for being caught by surprise by Haytham's reinforcements when she was later questioned by Mentor Davenport.

Pain slammed into her like a horse had kicked her. Later, she would find out that she had been shot in the shoulder; at the time, though, all she knew was that she was suddenly falling from the roof, with garbled shouts echoing in her ringing ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry it's a little late; my modem's power cord decided not to work so we had to get a new one.


	8. Forsaken is Officially Non-Canon

Haytham had never been so glad to see Charles. Panting for breath and bleeding from several places, he ignored the pain and straightened as his second-in-command reached the roof he and Otetieni were standing on. 

"Sir," Charles cried, holstering his gun, "are you alright?"

Haytham raised a hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes and hissed in pain. Damn. He had forgotton just who had helped teach him sword-play in the first place, and he was paying for it now. For a woman who had to be in her forties by now, Jenny was as good at sword-fighting as ever. Waving off Charles' concerned grabby hands, he took a deep breath and centered himself, shifting his pain away into the back of his mind. 

"I'll be fine for now, Charles," he said sternly, "What I need to know is-"

"We've found your son!"

In one of the few moments of his life, Haytham found himself speechless. 

"How-"

"Hickey found the boy, actually, he currently being seen to by a doctor," Charles babbled, his eyes darting from Haytham to the large native man behind him who, as Haytham glanced over his shoulder, still had a knife unsheathed and was glowering at the two of them.

Then he realized exactly what Charles had said.

"A doctor?"

"Yes sir, if you come this way I can explain as we ride there," he said, gesturing down to the ground. Looking over the edge of the roof, Haytham saw a pair of horses snorting and pawing at the ground by a wagon full of hay.

"I see," Haytham said, grimacing. Damn. Climbing down the side of the house with the wounds that Jenny had just inflicted on him was not possible; just breathing was sending stabbing pains up along his sides, and the pain radiating from his shoulder and biceps made it very clear that raising his arms was going to be a painful mistake for the next few weeks.

No, there was only one way down from the roof in his condition.

"Well," he said, turning back to Charles, "I'll see you down there."

And with that, he braced himself and jumped into the hay wagon with Charles and Otetieni's shouts following him down.

It hurt. Not as much as actually climbing down would have. But it still took him longer than usual to get up from the hay cart; long enough for Charles to climb down himself and hurry over to help him. Haytham hated to admit it, but he did actually need his second's help in getting into the saddle.

Otetieni needed no such help.

His presence, sitting behind him on the horse, was extremely distracting. Haytham had never liked having anyone at his back that he did not trust, and judging from the deadly silence emanating from the man sitting behind him, Haytham was darkly certain that he was barely restraining himself from taking his knife and getting some answers about Jenny's insinuations.

Luckily, however, his concern for his nephew was overriding his suspicion. Haytham made a note to reward Charles somehow as he babbled on as they galloped towards the tavern that his son was being treated at.

"The boy apparantly wandered into the...tavern," and the curl to Charles' lip had Haytham mentally replacing the word 'tavern' with 'whorehouse', "that Hickey was spending the night at, sir, clearly drugged-"

"What with?" asked Otetieni, leaning over Haytham's shoulder with narrowed eyes.

Charles scowled briefly at the native man.

"We don't know," he snapped, before turning back to Haytham and resuming his fawning expression.

"- and confused as to where he was. Luckily there was a doctor in the establishment, and Hickey managed to convince to treat the boy and apparently sent a runner to fetch you-"

"But he could not find me, as I was already looking for Ratonhnhake:ton."

Charles nodded furiously.

"Yes sir," he replied, "but luckily after going back Hickey told him of the Green Dragon, and so he was able to fetch those of us that were staying for the night -"

"- and so you began to run around and look for me." Haytham finished. 

"Not all of us, sir," Charles said, "I believed that kidnapping your son was merely the opening salvo of a bigger push to drive us out of the city, and so sent Johnson and Captain Pitcairn to warn the other Templars in the city."

Ah yes. Haytham blinked. The very possibility of Ratonhnhake:ton's kidnapping being merely part of a larger pushback against the Templars in the city hadn't even crossed his mind.

Thank goodness for Charles, then. He gave the younger man as much of an approving nod as he could on top of a galloping horse.

The careening ride went on for several more agonizing minutes, even at full gallop. Any pain that Haytham could have felt from the jarring of the horse or his new-found brother-in-law Otetieni gripping his ribs tightly paled in comparison to the worries swirling through his head.

It was so, so easy to poison a child accidently when trying to drug them into silence. And it had been several hours since he had started after the two Assassins that had kidnapped his son; hours in which his son had not been seen by anyone but one of his less reliable underlings.

Oh sure, Hickey excelled at gathering information for the Order. He would not be part of the Inner Circle if he was incompetent at his job. But Haytham was not blind to his love of drink and women. Who knew how long it had taken for him to fetch the doctor for his son?

And the several hours that had passed between last seeing his son and hearing of what happened to him was worrying. It was more than enough time for Ratonhnhake:ton to absorb a fatal dose of whatever it was that had been forced into him.

Finally, after agonizing minutes, they reached the tavern that Hickey had been spending the night in. Bursting through the door, the stench of cheap perfume and sex slapped Haytham in the face. 

It appeared that he had been right about the actual main business of Hickey's chosen haunt. 

"Are you Mr. Kenway, sir?" came an annoyingly high-pitched voice at his elbow. Looking down, he saw a dark head of hair and a face slathered in make-up staring up at him.

"If you'll just come this way, sir - " she squeaked as he pushed her out of the way in burst of irritation and headed towards the room that she had been gesturing at, slamming the door open.

He looked so small.

That was the first thought that went through Haytham's head as he took in the sight of his child, filthy, unconcious and lying as still as a corpse on the room's long, low couch.

I'll killl them all for this was the second.

Crossing the room with swift steps, he fell to his knees beside his son and reached out a hand to touch his cheek. Behind him, he heard a low oath in Mohawk and hurried steps before Otetieni crouched down beside him. His hand, darker than Haytham's and with a shell bracelet on his wrist, was quickly laid on Ratonhnhake:ton's forehead, most likely feeling for fever or other illness.

His son's skin was cool and clammy under his fingers, damp with sweat and stiff from tears. His eyelashes, clumped together and lying on his cheeks, fluttered briefly, but otherwise, he was unresponsive to his father's touch.

Haytham's hand was shaking.

"He'll be fine," someone said behind him, his voice high and nervous. Haytham didn't recognize it; most likely it was the doctor that had been treating Ratonhnhake:ton.

"It was touch and go for a while," the voice rambled on, "especially after he stopped breathing -"

"He stopped. Breathing?"

Haytham barely recognized his own voice. Beside him, he could hear Otetieni grinding his teeth.

The doctor stuttered briefly before finding his voice again.

"Y-yes, sir, but I knew an assisted breathing method, I learned it from midwives, and it got him breathing again in no time at all."

Haytham could feel himself shaking with rage. The anger flowed through him like a river of lava, hot and smooth and deadly, and he knew to his core that by the time he was finished, there would not be a single living Assassin left in Boston.

"Charles," he said, his voice thin but steady.

"Sir?"

"Find the ones that did this."

"Yes sir. Would you like them killed or pumped for information?"

"I don't care," Haytham said, his eyes still on his small, barely-breathing boy. "I want the folly of their actions fully impressed upon them. Do you understand?"

There was silence behind him, then -

"I understand sir." Charles said. "I know just the man for the job."

The squeak of his heels as he exited the room echoed in the silence.

"Doctor." Haytham said.

"Yes sir."

"Is there anything else you can do for my son?"

"No sir."

"I am injured. Do you have the equipment necessary to treat me?"

"No sir. It's back at my office."

"Get it and return here. When you are done you can send your bill to the Green Dragon. They will forward it to me."

"Yes sir."

Another set of footsteps echoed in the air.

"Thomas."

"Yes boss?"

Unusually, the man didn't sound sarcastic in saying those words. Haytham couldn't bring himself to care.

"Go and join Charles. Tell him I sent you. I want those men found."

"Yes boss."

With a mutter, his last subordinate left the room, leaving Haytham and Otetieni alone.

Haytham then knelt with his hands in his lap in silence for several minutes beside his son, just watching him breathe in an out. Otetieni, his hand still covering most of Ratonhnhake:ton's skull, idly stroked his son's forehead with his thumb.

How had this happened?

Haytham knew that he had been careful. He had had to be careful. Boston, like any other city, was a hotbed of Assassin and Templar activity. The sheer density of people in such a small space, its port that was key to communicating with the Order and Brotherhood in the Old World and the rest of the British Colonies, made it too vital for either side to easily give it up to the other. So he had checked over her shoulder, metaphorically speaking, every day. When walking home, he took circituous routes, never the same way. He met most of his people in public places far away from his neighbourhood; only his Inner Circle knew where he lived.

So how had the Assassins known where to go? Their kidnapping of Ratonhnhake:ton pointed towards them knowing exactly who's house they were breaking into. Why else would they take a child from their bed?

Haytham's mind was like a turtle flipped onto its back; frantically wiggling its legs and yet going nowhere. He repeated what he knew over and over in his mind, examining the facts from all angles until it was almost a relief when Otetieni broke the silence between them.

"Why did they take Ratonhnhake:ton? And what did that woman mean by you being a traitor?"

Shaking himself from his stupor, Haytham frowned. His stomach clenched, and he found himself drumming the fingers of his free hand on his knee, struggling to articulate why he had turned away from his family. Because at its core, that was what it had been. Turning away not just from the Assassins, but his very family, and giving up his dreams of a loving wife and children.

He felt nauseous and for a moment, seriously considered saying that it was none of the native man's business. But looking into the man's dark, suspicious eyes he knew that doing so would completely break the fragile camradery that had been built during their hunt for his son and create yet another enemy for him to look over his shoulder for.

So he swallowed his discomfort in what was beginning to be a very familiar sensation where his son was concerned, and decided to be completely honest.

"I am not precisely sure why they stole Ratonhnhake:ton, or how they even knew of him," he said quietly, "but it was most likely to force me into surrendering myself so that they could kill me and destroy the group of people that I work with."

The native man's eyes glittered.

"What group?"

"Are you asking the name of my group, or their's?" Haytham asked.

"Both."

Haytham folded one hand over the other and tapped his knuckles. How to put this? And should he even tell the man?

No. No, he had to tell the man. Leaving them out would create too many unanswered questions, and from what he had seen the native was far too intelligent to be thrown off by any changes in subject. Rather like his sister in that respect.

"They are known as the Assassin Brotherhood, a group of killers who have devoted themselves to destabilising society in the name of freedom. I am the Grandmaster of the Templar Order, which has opposed the Assassins since the Crusades in the Holy Land."

Otetieni was still and made no movement as he sat in his chair, clearly waiting for Haytham to continue. Haytham wasn't sure if he was irritated that the man was using his own tactics against him, or annoyed that it was working so well.

"The Templar Order is different from the Assassins. Where they believe in freedom above all things, we know the nature of man. He is weak, and cruel, and selfish, and needs to be controlled to keep him from destroying anyone different from him. Naturally, our two Orders have been known to clash."

Haytham couldn't help but glance down at his son and reach out a hand. Ratonhnhake:ton's cheek was soft underneath his fingers, and slightly damp from sweat. 

Damn them. Damn them all. He couldn't lose this. He had just started to learn about his son. Learn his favourite treats for after dinner, the little noises he made in his sleep, how his hair stuck up in the morning. He couldn't lose the fragile little family that they made. If Ratonhnhake:ton died, Haytham would not stop in the fight against the Assassins. He would hunt down and kill every man, woman and child associated with them, burn their homes and salt their fields so thoroughly that their madness would never take root in the New World again.

"You believe that my nephew's kidnapping was a part of this war, then."

Dragged out of his red-hazed thoughts, Haytham glanced over to the stone-faced native. That had not been a question. His dark eyes glittered with some repressed emotion, and if it was not anger Haytham would eat his hat.

"Yes."

"And you did not see it coming?"

...Oh yes, the man was definitely angry. His stoic look had disappeared, with his lips curling back in a snarl and his eyebrows dropping down low. Haytham couldn't answer his question.

"Such attacks are common in war!" the man snarled, "How could you not have guessed!" He gestured wildly with his one hand that was not cupped protectively around his nephew's head. "You white men burn our villages all the time! What makes your war so different that you would not recognize the danger!"

Haytham ground his teeth together.

"If you would let me explain," he snapped, "the reason I did not think that this would happen was because they are supposed to have a rule against involving 'innocents'."

Otetieni looked disbelieving. 

"Rules?" he scoffed, "There are no rules in a war, only winners and losers."

Haytham gestured dismissively.

"Yes, well," he said, letting sarcasm seep into his voice, "the Assassins do so love to claim a sort of moral superiority over the Order. Not that they actually have one." The last sentence was grumbled under his breath.

The native man's eyes narrowed.

"And the comment of you being a traitor?"

Otetieni still looked suspicious. Haytham couldn't blame him. Two groups of people, fighting for the future of the human race? It was like something out of a poorly-written novel.

"That," he said heavily, "is a much longer story."

Leaning back on his heels and wincing as his injuries protested, Haytham rubbed his face and decided to start at the beginning.

"The woman," he said, carefully avoiding his relationship to his sister, "called me a traitor because in her eyes I am one."

"I was born into the Assassin Brotherhood; my father had joined it before I was born, when he was the captain of a ship down in the Caribbean. After he had made his fortune, he came back to England and contacted the local branch of the Brotherhood."

Leaning forward and pressing his hands together, Haytham grimaced.

"I suppose that that was where the problems started. You see, the English Brotherhood was rather conservative. They did not trust my father, apparently seeing him as a jumped-up gutter wretch, and made several demands that he thought were rather insulting. I never did find out what they were, precisely, but, by the time I was born, relations were rather chilly between my family and the Brotherhood."

Otetieni grunted and looked down at Ratonhnhake:ton. Stroking back his hair, he asked, "So your family moved away from them and they blame you for that?"

It was so, so tempting to agree and leave it at that. Tapping the knuckles on one hand, Haytham seriously considered it for a few moments. He hated talking about the nature of his turning to the Templar Order. Even Ziio hadn't been able to get the full story from him.

But no. Lies, Haytham knew from bitter experience, tended to come back and bite one in the arse. And he had enough enemies already. 

"...No, actually," he admitted, "for all of the insults, my father was always trying to stay connected with the main Brotherhood, and by the time I was ready to be taught about such things, he had finally agreed to several concessions. One of which," he said, looking the man in the eye, "was having me closely mentored by a more trusted member of the Brotherhood."

Otetieni watched him with glittering dark eyes.

"So, at the age of thirteen, I was introduced to the man who would be my mentor for three years. James Taylor. And he taught me a great deal," and Haytham couldn't help but allow a sardonic strain to enter his voice, "about how the world worked."

"Mainly, that rules are easily twisted to justify the unjustifiable."

"For Mister Taylor, as it turned out, was not quite the paragon he liked to present himself as. Over the next three years I watched as he slaughtered men and women with no care for anything but who they associated with; if they were associated with the Templar Order, he would slit their throats and then brag about it to the other Assassins to great applause, with no thought given to the damage he did to the world around him."

The memories of those times still disturbed him, even with them being in decades past. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his hands together, the ghost of blood clinging stickily. He could still remember with great clarity how the man had begged. The horror in his son's eyes when he had walked in with Haytham standing over his father's body.

The strangely loud squelch as Taylor had run the eleven-year-old through without a flicker of remorse. The cold London air burning in his lungs as he ran along the rooftops back to the safehouse. The ringing of Taylor and his friends laughing over drinks afterwards. The papers from the man's desk that outlined a plan to outlaw slavery within the British Empire and orders for gifts for his daughter's sixth birthday. Staring at himself in a mirror. Hearing the little gasps that the boy had made as he bled to death on the floor, the fear in his eyes as he looked up at him. 

The sound of someone snapping their fingers in front of his face drew him back into the world of the living.

Otetieni leaned back in his chair and looked at him steadily.

"You had the look of a man in a waking nightmare," he said by way of explanation. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth; but for a moment, barely more than a blink, Haytham could have sworn that he saw a flicker of some sort of sympathy in his eyes.

Haytham gave his head a good shake and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

"That is not far from what it felt like, underneath Mister Taylor." he admitted. "The final straw for me was when he killed an eleven-year-old witness to a murder." Haytham laughed mirthlessly at the look of disgust on the native man's face. "He claimed that it was to keep the Templars from gaining another soldier. That because he had seen me kill his father, he would of course join the Order once old enough to so that he could kill Assassins. That to truly win, you had to destroy the disease at the root."

"And there was no one for me to talk to. At the time, my father was away for business, and would not return for several months. My sister had married finally, and was in the Caribbean with her new husband. And all around me, there was nothing but adulation for Taylor and his actions."

"And so I found myself at loose ends. In my guilt, I went to the man and his son's funeral. And it was there that I met the man that would introduce me to a better way: Reginald Birch."

Otetieni cocked his head to one side.

"He was the one who introduced you to the Templar Order?"

Haytham nodded.

"Precisely. He vouched for me, mentored me in the Templar way. Protected me from those within the Order who would question my loyalties. Helped me put Taylor and his cronies down like the mad dogs they were." Haytham tapped his fingertips together. "I owe him a great deal."

Otetieni hummed thoughtfully with pursed lips.

As the man mulled his confession over, Haytham looked back over his unconcious son. 

Ratonhnhake:ton had shifted slightly as they had talked, scrunching his nose and wrinkling his brow like he had been listening to his father's confession. As he watched, the little boy whimpered, some drug-induced nightmare dancing across the insides of his eyelids. 

Ignoring the stab of pain lancing its way up his arm, Haytham lifted his hand back up to smooth the hair away from the boy's small face. His skin was still worryingly pale, with spots of colour high on his cheeks, but at his father's touch, the discomfort on Ratonhnhake:ton's face melted away and sighing, he snuggled closer into Haytham's hand. 

"And what did your family think of this?" Otetieni asked. Looking up from his son, Haytham found himself raising his own eyebrow to counter the still face in front of him. The anger that the man appeared to have been feeling had fled his expression, leaving a stoicism that would have been the envy of any stone.

Otetieni mockingly raised his own eyebrow.

"Your family?" he prompted.

Haytham grimaced internally. He was not an easily distracted person. Ziio had been the same. Her focus had been fascinating in their time together. Her loyalty to her people, her willingness to stand up and fight for what she believed in, it had all been intoxicating; he had found himself wishing on more than one occasion that his recruits could show similar devotion to the Templar cause.

In this case though, he was finding Otetieni's similarities with his sister to be more irritating than admirable.

"My father was upset," Haytham said, injecting a cold undertone into his voice. "I was forced to leave England for several years. I only returned upon recieving the news that he had retired to the Caribbean."

Haytham held the man's cool gaze. He was a Templar Grandmaster, and he was done with this interrogation.

Otetieni broke first. Looking down at his nephew, Haytham saw his expression soften just the slightest bit.

"And then?"

"And then I was charged with building a new branch of the Order in the colonies. And the rest, as they say," Haytham said, "is history." He punctuated the end of his story with a sharp look at the man.

After several silent seconds, the native man seemed to get the message. Leaning back, he rearranged himself so that he was sitting cross-legged and folded his arms, looking thoughtful.

They sat together in silence after that, hovering over his son, until finally the doctor returned to treat Haytham's injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Canada Day everybody!!! Got an early chapter out just for you guys. Also, I need a vote - how would you like the last chapter to be published on the 4th?
> 
> Also, I hope that this backstory for Haytham makes sense. When playing the game myself, I didn't get the impression that Birch had a hand in raising Haytham; their dialogue rather made me think more like a very close boss/subordinate relationship. Almost like Charles and Haytham, if less worshipful from Haytham's side. Also, Haytham's target during the opera, Miko. His words to me implied a certain amount of closeness as well, again like a boss to a subordinate. Like Haytham had had some sort of problem with the Assassins and had gone to an outside force for help, rather than appealing to someone higher up in the Assassin hierarchy.
> 
> Anyways, I hope that that babbling made sense. Feel free to strike up a conversation with me in the comments, I've been wanting to babble on about this with someone for ages. You can also contact me on Tumblr - I'm wondersmithofastronautalis.tumblr.com.


	9. Summer Camp

They sat in silence until the doctor returned, bringing with him nervous chatter and thread to close the injuries that Jenny had inflicted upon Haytham. It took until the sun was half-risen for the man to finish, and by the time Haytham was able to leave the 'tavern' it had fully begun to climb its way up the sky. As Ratonhnhake:ton was still unconcious, Haytham was forced to call for a carriage, a demand that was apparently unusual in this part of Boston. A few glares and a flash of his hidden blade, however, quickly cleared things up, and soon Haytham was sitting in a rather battered and threadbare carriage with his son lying beside him, wrapped in his cape. Despite his offers, Otetieni refused to sit inside with him. He instead sat beside the driver with crossed arms, glaring at anyone that tried to get close enough to sell him their wares.

Inside, with just himself and his sleeping son in his lap for company, Haytham finally allowed himself to sag back against the seats in exhaustion.

God, this was a complete wash.

The Assassins had found out where he lived. They had struck. His home was no longer safe. No amount of strikes at the Assassins' funding could make up for that.

Grimacing, he rubbed his unshaven jaw. He'd have to move. He had several safehouses along the coast in both cities and towns, but he would have to hire a whole new set of servants wherever he settled down. Mrs Potts would perhaps come, he knew. She had been a lifelong spinster and had served several different high-ranking Templar members back in England, and it had been him who had paid for her passage over to the New World. She didn't have the roots that the other members of his household did. That was one relief, at least. Ratonhnhake:ton had become rather attached to her in the short time that they had been living together. The rest of the servants, though, would have to be let go. 

Beside him, Ratonhnhake:ton stirred, jerking him out of his plans for the future.

Wrapping his cape a little more firmly around the little boy, Haytham picked him up from the seat and cradled him in his arms, resting his son's head in between his shoulder and neck. In his arms, the little boy squirmed slightly, making small, sleepy noises. Haytham could feel his eyelashes flutter against his jaw before he yawned hugely.

"Rake'ni?" he asked. His voice was smaller and weaker than Haytham had ever heard it before, including the time when he frightened him into soiling himself.

He shifted so that he could look into his son's face. Dark half-circles stained the skin under Ratonhnhake:ton's heavily-lidded and unfocused eyes, with small cuts and bruises dotting his forehead and soft, freckled cheeks. His hair was mussed as well, tangled into knots with God only knew what mixed in and sticking up in spikes.

"Yes son?" he said, keeping his voice low.

A small, sweet smile spread across his face at the sound of Haytham's voice.

"Bear man was right," he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, "I did find you." Still smiling, he sighed and nuzzled at Haytham's jaw with his nose, relaxing in his arms.

Haytham, however, frowned at Ratonhnhake:ton's comment. "Bear man?" he asked.

Tiredly, Ratonhnhake:ton nodded.

"Bear man. He showeded me were to find Mister Hickey an' told me that I had to get away from the bad men so that you could find me."

"I...see," Haytham said, not seeing at all. Why would some Assassin help his mortal enemy's child escape back to his father? Some attempt to follow the boy and find a Templar safehouse, perhaps? If that was the case, then they were lucky that the whorehouse Hickey hadn't been one of theirs.

"Do you know why the man helped you?" he asked the boy, still keeping his voice calm and soft. There was no need to frighten him after the night that he had had. 

Ratonhnhake:ton shook his head.

"No," he said, rubbing his eye, "he just said that I had to be brave." A small smile quirked his lips. "He called me little wolf."

"Little wolf?"

"Uh-huh, and he was dressed funny too, like one of those men in the books."

Haytham leaned back in his seat, rubbing his son's back.

"Like one of the men in the books? What do you mean by that?" he asked. Mentally, he went over the books in his personal library that he had seen Ratonhnhake:ton reading. Which ones had pictures in them, again?

"All flowing and draped," Ratonhnhake:ton mumbled. He was grinding the heel of one hand into his eye. "M' eyes are sore," he added.

Flowing and draped - perhaps that book of Greek myth? That was interesting, to say the least. Part of Haytham wanted to continue to question his son about the bear man. The rest of him, though, focused in on his son's offhanded comment.

Shifting so that he could see Ratonhnhake:ton's face, he gently caught his son's arm before he could start rubbing again. Pulling the chubby little fist away, he peered closely at his son's eyes.

They didn't look damaged. They were slightly red from being rubbed and still slightly unfocused, but Haytham could still see them moving and studying his own features in return. 

"It doesn't look like they're hurt," he pronounced after a moment. "They will most likely stop hurting if you stop rubbing them."

Ratonhnhake:ton grumbled under his breath and pouted. "They hurt before, though," he said, "when the bear man was saying that they were getting stronger."

Stronger? Haytham raised an eyebrown and opened his mouth to question his son further when the carriage shuddered to a halt.

Opening the carriage door with one hand and tucking his son into the crook of the other one, Haytham was met with a flurry of skirts that resolved itself into the figure of Mrs Potts dashing towards him, with the other maids and the cook following closely. Haytham found himself suddenly struck with guilt. With all of the excitement of Ratonhnhake:ton's kidnapping, the fate of his head maid had completely slipped his mind. That blow to the head could have killed her for all he knew, and he had been worrying whether or not she would join him in his new home.

"Oh, Master Kenway!" she cried as she reached the two of them., "Is Radoonhaygaydoon alright? I woke after those awful men struck me to find his bed empty - "

Dodging her attempts to grab at the lapels of his coat, he quickly cut her off.

"He's been found," he reassured her, "but he was made very ill by them. He needs to be put to bed as quickly as possible - "

That set off another wail from the older woman, who sobbed out her agreement before dashing back into the house to ready the bed.

Haytham sighed and shifted Ratonhnhake:ton into a more comfortable position in his arms, with his head tucked in the crook of his neck. Already, he could feel the energy draining from his son. Reaching out, he grabbed the cook, a hatchet-faced woman, as she turned to leave.

"If you don't mind," he asked, "could you let Mrs. Potts know that I would prefer to keep Ratonhnhake:ton in my room for know. I'm finding myself rather unnerved by the idea of letting him out of my sight, you understand?"

The woman's face softened slightly, and she curtsied.

"Of course, sir," she said. "And will you and your guest require anything from my kitchen?"

The loud sound of a stomach growling filled the air. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Otetieni had gotten down from his seat at the front of the carriage and was standing at parade rest with his arms crossed and a faint blush staining his cheeks. He looked like he was just daring Haytham to make a comment about his stomach.

Rolling his eyes, Haytham turned back to the now-smirking cook. 

"Yes," he said drily, "I believe that some food would be much appreciated right now."

Nodding, the cook set off back towards the house with both men following her. The next few minutes were a blur of sheets and twittering, the maids alternately helping prepare his room for his son and breaking off to coo sympathetically at the boy now fast asleep in his father's arms. Finally, though, they left to return to their chores, leaving Haytham alone in the room with his son, the native man and a tray of ham sandwiches and tea. 

Sitting down on the bed beside Ratonhnhake:ton, Haytham stroked the boy's cheek with his knuckle. His mind churned with worries. How had they been found? Why had they taken his son and then let him go? Was it even an assassin that had lead his son to Hickey? Ratonhnhake:ton's description of the 'bear man' that had helped him had been strange; that comment about him wearing clothes like the Greeks and Romans brought up more questions than answers. Had one of Those Who Came Before communicated with Ratonhnhake:ton? He had had the amulet, it was true, but it had never acted in such a manner before.

A sandwich was shoved underneath his nose. Nearly reflexively unsheathing his blades, Haytham looked up to see a puff-cheeked Otetieni finishing pushing the crust of another sandwich into his mouth. Chewing quickly, the native man swallowed and gave him a stern look.

"Eat," he rumbled, "before you collapse."

First the man hated him, then he became almost friendly during their search for Ratonhnhake:ton, then back to unfriendly and interrogating him about his past, and now he was concerned that Haytham might faint from hunger. Was it even possible for a man's opinion of a person to change so much in under a day?

Regardless of his confusion of the man's flip-flopping opinions, Haytham took that sandwich and bit into it. As the first bite slid down his throat, he realized just how hungry he was. The only thing that kept him from messily devouring the rest of the sandwich was the fact that he was being closely observed by the native man as he ate.

Licking away a trace of mustard from the corner of his mouth, he burped delicately behind a hand. That had been an excellent sandwich. He would be sorry to lose the cook when he left. 

"Your confession back there was disturbing."

Swiping away a crumb caught on his lower lip, Haytham glanced back at Otetieni. The man was leaning against the wall beside the headboard of the bed with his arms crossed.

"Which part?" Haytham asked, keeping his tone light as he reached to pour himself a cup of tea, "the actions of the Assassin's Brotherhood or my betrayal of their beliefs after being taught by them?"

Otetieni raised an eyebrow and tapped his fingers along a bicep. 

"To be raised in evil and then leave it is nothing to be ashamed of," he said, his voice gruff.

"Evil, hmm?" Haytham said, raising his steaming teacup to his lips. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself wanting to push the man. "Some would argue that their devotion to the personal freedom of mankind is the opposite of that?"

The native man looked irritated. "To celebrate a person that murders a child on the grounds that they might one day be a threat is evil," he said firmly, "and those that stand against them are therefore good."

...Well. Haytham hadn't been expecting this. It wasn't unwelcome, though.

"I see," he said, putting his cup down.

"I find myself worried, though," Otetieni said, looking down at his nephew, "that there will be another attack on my nephew."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Haytham said instantly.

"Promises are just words."

"I intend to act as well." Standing up from the bed, Haytham crossed his arms as well and lifted his chin slightly. "I am not incompetent. The Assassins finding my home and my son means that I must leave for our safety. I have many houses that they do not know of throughout the colonies, and I intend to move to one of them as soon as possible. This will include hiring an entirely new staff as well, which will plug up any possible leaks that may have lead to the discovery of the house."

Haytham was irritated to see the other man's brow furrow. For God's sake, did he expect more? 

"How far would this relocation take Ratonhnhake:ton?" asked the man.

Haytham quirked an eyebrow.

"As far as I deem necessary," he said, his voice terse.

The furrowed brows mutated into a full-blown frown at that. Pushing off from the wall that he had been leaning against, Otetieni bent at the waist and gently swept Ratonhnhake:ton's hair off of his forehead.

"He might end up very far from his mother's people, then," the man said.

It then struck Haytham what Otetieni was getting at. He wanted to hit himself. It was so obvious. 

Otetieni was worried that Ratonhnhake:ton would be cut off from his birth culture. The memory of his first night with Ziio swam to the top of his mind. Her story of her goddess had just been the tip of her people's rich mythology, and she had delighted in telling Haytham other stories after they had made love. They had been fascinating, filled with great heroes and gods that so very few white men had heard of; it had felt like such a show of trust whenever she had told those stories.

Clearing his throat, Haytham braced himself to soothe Otetieni's fears.

"If you are worried that you will never see Ratonhnhake:ton again, do not be," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "I have no intention of cutting him off from Ziio's memory."  
The native man did not look reassured. 

"And how would you do that?" he asked, glancing over towards him.

Haytham hesitated. How would he do that? Even if he moved to New York, Ziio's village would still be several day's travel on horseback. Since it was so far away, there would be no point in only staying for a short period of time, but at the same time as Grandmaster of the Order he would not be able to take so much time off. Unless...

"How would you feel about Ratonhnhake:ton returning to your village for the summers?"

Now it was Otetieni's turn to quirk an eyebrow.

"What?"

"The Assassins are most active during the summer months - as is the Templar Order. It's simply the easiest time to travel. Because of that, it is also the season when I am busiest with the Order. Since I would not be able to spend a great deal of time with Ratonhnhake:ton then, that makes it the perfect time for him to go and visit his tribe, no?"

"And how, exactly, would Ratonhnhake:ton get there?"

Haytham counted it as a victory that Otetieni did not look skeptical, despite his words.

"Well, he will be too young to travel on his own for several years yet, I know. And I know that I would not wish to emphasize our relationship, especially after last night..."

"You want me to come and retrieve him."

"Well, you've already made the trip once."

Otetieni looked back down at his nephew. Stoking his head one last time, he stood up and nodded.

"Your proposal is acceptable," he said gravely.

Haytham inclined his head.

"I am glad to hear that," he said. "Now, would you like to stay for a few days more? I can have the maids prepare the guest room for you if that is the case."

Otetieni grunted and nodded slightly.

Once the man was settled into his room, Haytham spent the rest of his day busily preparing to move. Writing letters of recommendation for the servants, deciding on which of his properties he and his son would live and where, how they would get their in relative secrecy and all the little things that went into the Grandmaster of the Templar Order moving to a different city had to be decided as soon as possible. While he was doing such paperwork, he stayed in the room with Ratonhnhake:ton, writing and eating at his small, personal desk.

By the time he decided that he had done all that he could in a single day, the sun had long since gone down. The candle that he had begun to burn was half-gone, its flame guttering in a pool of its own melted wax. Leaning back in his chair, Haytham lifted his hands above his head and stretched, sighing at the popping sound of his spine re-aligning.

Looking over at the bed, he drummed his fingers on his desk. The small figure of Ratonhnhake:ton was barely visible under the bed's quilt and its many plush pillows. The boy had only awoken occasionally throughout the day, making soft distressed noises that were quickly soothed by fingers running through his hair or a backrub. A few small bites of a sandwich and a cup of tea were all that he had managed to get down before falling back asleep. Haytham supposed that his sleepiness made sense; nearly dying from being poisoned had to be a rather exhausting activity.

As it was, all Haytham wanted to do was collapse into the bed as well. It had been a very long day, two days in fact, he realized dully. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he put the last of his papers away in a locked desk drawer and stood up. Checking that all of the windows were locked, he then began to undress. His weapons, strapped to his side since yesterday evening, were carefully placed down on the bedside table so that they did not make much noise. His hair was loosened from its usual ponytail and quickly combed smooth. Soon he was standing beside the bed, clad only in his nightshirt. 

Groaning, he let his head hit the pillow and pulled the covers up around him. Lying on his side, he could see his son beside him, curled up in a ball and with his fist pressed against his lips. Even in the darkness, Haytham could make out his eyelashes fluttering as he dreamed, his eyes rapidly moving underneath his eyelids.

His chest clenched. He could have lost this. If Ratonhnhake:ton hadn't been able to escape from the Assassins and make his was to Hickey, it was very likely that the boy would have died long before Haytham would have ever found him. Looking at his sleeping son, safe in his bed and within arm's reach, it hit him just how lucky he had been. 

Reaching out, he pulled his son closer, quietly shushing his small grumpy noises at being disturbed. The boy wriggled slightly in his arms and buried his nose into Haytham's nightshirt, taking a deep breath before his brow unfurrowed. 

Pressing a small, light kiss to the top of his son's head, Haytham swore that he would never allow anything like last night to happen again. By the time he was done, no Assassin would ever dare set foot in the colonies again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Okay, sorry, I don't think I was clear enough in the text itself. 
> 
> Otetieni isn't taking Connor back to the village right now. It's rolling into autumn in the story, and yeah, Haytham isn't letting Connor go right after this attack. Connor will visit his tribe next summer.


	10. Burn

"Again, sir, I am so sorry that the Dutch Assassin managed to escape. The men responsible for guarding him have been punished -"

"Charles," Haytham said, stopping in the doorway, "it's alright. I know that you have already taken steps to correct this, and in any case, I am far more interested in these new Assassins that you managed to find."

"Ah, yes, my apologies, sir," said the younger man, tugging at his cuffs nervously, "How is your son doing, anyway?"

Haytham glanced over his shoulder as he descended down the steps to the abandoned house's wine cellar. He hadn't wanted to leave New York and his son behind so soon after they had settled in, but when Charles had sent him a message to tell him that they had found the men that Ratonhnhake:ton had described as he recovered, he had been struck by the urge to meet these men who had nearly murdered his little boy. So, after a quick grappling match to pry the boy off his leg and setting up a guard rotation for while he was not there, he had been off to finish his business with the Assassins.

"He's fine, Charles. He's recovered from the fright we had and he's settling in to New York quite well. He's quite taken with his English name."

"Oh, so you decided on one, sir?"

"Yes, Connor. I have rather bad memories associated with the other names, and he seemed to enjoy the meaning behind it. He's been running around and introducing himself to all of the servants," Haytham said, laughing quietly.

Charles stumbled behind him, making him glance back again.

"I - sir..."

"Yes, Charles," Haytham said, the corners of his lips turning up slightly, "it is the name you suggested."

"I am honoured, sir."

"I will be sure to pass that on to him."

They fell into a silence as they reached the bottom of the stairs. The stench of the wine cellar slapped Haytham in the face, making him cover his mouth and nose with his hand. Unlike most of the cellars he had been in, this one was extremely warm rather than cold and damp, intensifying the smells of blood, burnt flesh, and bodily waste that were thick in the air. The source of the heat was several small braziers, packed with wood and glowing in the darkness. Metal pokers, their tips still ember-red, lay on top of them. A small lamp hang from the bare beams above his head, just barely illuminating the room enough for Haytham to see the remaining bottles of cheap wine that lined the walls.  
In the centre of the room, however, hanging from their wrists from the ceiling, were two bodies. One was thin and pale, the other thicker and darker-skinned. The darkness of the cellar hid most of the damage that had been done to them; still, though, Haytham saw wet gleams from the light cast from the braziers. Dark patches and streaks covered them as well, only allowing a few slashes of pale, unmarked flesh visible.

"Maestro Kenway."

Glancing over to the braziers where the voice had emanated, Haytham took in the sight of the man that had caused this.

Father Federico Perez.

The man that Charles had arranged to interrogate the captured Boston Assassins was tall and olive-skinned, dressed in the spotless vestments of a priest. His face was scarred, with a small one, as if from a knife, going through his upper lip, and a larger one reaching from his nose to his right cheek that looked like it had come from a sword. Even in the darkness of the cellar, Haytham could see the fanatical gleam in his eye as he came forward to shake his hand.

"It is an honour to meet you," he said, an almost awed tone to his voice as he pumped his hand up and down. "Maestro Lee has spoken often of you."

"I see," Haytham said, trying to extricate himself from the priest's punishing grip, "Good things, I hope?"

"Oh, yes sir, all of it was very flattering. Your devotion to punishing these sinners is very admirable, as is your desire to hear them repent for their evil actions."

Haytham nearly cocked an eyebrow. 'Sinners'. That was certainly the first time he had heard that name for the Assassins. The reference to hearing them repent was slightly odd too. Glancing back towards Charles, he saw the man holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Meeting his stare, the younger man shrugged subtly. Ah, an eccentricity then.

"I do try," Haytham said, tucking his hands behind his back before the man could grab them again. "So tell me, Father Perez, have these gentlemen, ah, repented?"

The priest clucked his tongue. "Unfortunately, no," he said, shaking his head. "They are very insistent that they wish to help humanity, not harm it, and they will not tell me where their fellow sinners are. I fear that they are beyond help now. Only death will purify them now."

Haytham's eyes narrowed.

"Really," he said, glancing back over towards the captives. They hung unmoving from the ceiling. Only a small gleam from their eyes let him know that they were listening. Haytham felt his lip curl in disgust.

Assassins. So sickeningly sure of their inherent goodness that they excused the most savage crimes.

Walking towards them, the smell of terror and pain became thicker in the air despite the small size of the cellar. Their sides were streaked with dark, dried blood and littered with burns from the pokers resting in the braziers. Stopping in front of the paler one, he gestured for Father Perez to let him down. To the man's credit, he didn't question Haytham. Instead he quickly unknotted the chain where it was tied to the floor.

The pale Assassin hit the ground and crumpled with a cry of pain, his mouth a wet red circle. Strolling closer, Haytham waited until the man stopped whimpering before kicking him onto his back. Reaching down, he grabbed the Assassin's wrists and pulled them towards the light of the braziers, ignoring the man's cries.

His eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for. There, on the man's right hand, was a half-healed bite mark, small enough to belong to a child. Just like Connor had told him. His gut slowly began to curl itself into a tight, hot ball.

Crouching down beside the man, he held his wrists so that his hands were right in front of his eyes.

"Tell me," he said, struggling to keep his anger out of his voice, "where did this bitemark come from?"

The Assassin babbled nonsensically, his voice cracking and heaving with sobs. Haytham squeezed down on his blackened wrists.

The man screamed as Haytham leaned closer.

"No matter," he said, not raising his voice to be heard over the man's sobs, "I already know. A little boy gave it to you. A little boy, that you stole from his bed."

The Assassin's face was a mess of tears and snot, blood flowing from his mouth. Haytham could see the white shards that were the remains of his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

"Tell me, Assassin. What are the three main tenets of your creed."

The piss-stained lump of flesh at his feet simply sobbed, not answering him. Haytham growled and flicked out a hidden blade. The squelch it made as he drove it into the Assassin's side had him baring his teeth in pleasure. He leaned down until the two of them were nose to nose.

"Your. Creed," he growled. "Recite it."

"STOP IT!"

Haytham glanced upwards, his grin sliding off of his face. The other Assassin had stopped playing dead. He snorted at the tears on the swarthy man's face.

"Why should I?" he asked, keeping his voice soft. "It's a reasonable question. I'm honestly curious if you even know your own creed."

The swarthy Assassin spat at him. It fell far short.

"What would a Templar like you know of our creed!?" he screamed.

Haytham shook his head in mock-amazement.

"Really now?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "You really do not know who I am?"

"You're the Templar Grandmaster, that's all I need to know!"

Haytham was sure that the boy thought he was sounding defiant. The shake in his voice was rather ruining things though, along with the lines that could have come out of a cheap novel. Twisting his blade that was still buried in the pale Assassin's gut, he smirked as tears rolled down the swarthy one's cheeks.

"That explains why you were caught, then."

Pulling his blade out of the sobbing body at his feet, he wiped it clean with a well-practiced movement before retracting it back.

"You see, I know your creed because I was once an Assassin as well. And do you know which one of the tenets my father emphasised when teaching the Creed?" he asked, spreading his arms.

The swarthy Assassin glared at him. Haytham smirked and leaned forward.

"Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Something that it seems you Assassins have forgotton."

"A Templar, lecturing me on not harming the innocent?" The man laughed harshly, his eyes so wide that even in the dimness, Haytham could see a ring of white around his irises. "You are the ones that harm innocents! You'd see them all enslaved as chattel to you!"

Haytham raised an eyebrow.

"Chattel?" he scoffed. "Hardly. We merely wish to protect humanity from its base nature. Protect the innocent," he said, stepping forward as his lips curled back from his teeth, "from the careless. Tell me, do you know how easy it is to poison a child? Even by accident? How close my four year old son came to dying due to you and your friend here?"

The man's eyes glittered in the darkness.

"What sort of man leaves a Piece of Eden with a child?"

Haytham snarled, nearly choking on his own rage.

How dare he. How dare he! Blaming his son's near death on him, when they had been the ones to break into his home! When they had been the ones to drug him half to death!

He whirled back towards Father Perez.

"Lower him as well," he growled, "they are beyond help."

Stiff-backed, he stalked to the wall and snatched several bottles off of the shelves, digging his fingernails into the corks and dragging them out of their necks. Brushing past Charles, he walked over to the two Assassins now on the floor and upended the first bottle.

"Sir?" came a hesitant voice behind him.

Haytham grunted and upended the second bottle, making sure to completely cover the two writhing Assassins with the wine. The sharp scent of the alchohol stung his nostrils in the heat of the room, fogging his mind further.

"Might I ask what exactly you are planning, sir?"

"I'm going to kill them, Charles," Haytham said. He could barely hear himself over the roar of blood in his ears. Tossing the second bottle aside, he pulled the cork out of the third bottle and upended it as well.

"But, sir, they might still have -"

"They don't, Charles," Haytham snapped. Tossing aside the third bottle, he grabbed the lantern down from its hook. "You heard Father Perez; only death can cleanse the world of their taint."

And with that, he let the lantern shatter on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Jenny's hands shook as she stared at the charred teeth that had just been dumped on her desk.

This was a total loss.

Across from her, Diederick sat slumped uncomfortably in a chair, holding his ribs. Despite the bruising and swelling of his face from his time with the Templar's Spanish priest, he still managed to look sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Mejuffrouw Scott," he said in his heavily-accented voice, "I didn't know where they were being held in the Templar compound, and the guards were coming. If I had known -"

Jenny cut him off with a jerky hand movement. His jaw shut with an audible click, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes to still them. Goddamn it. Hiram and Daniel, her students, the English Colonial Assassin's ticket into the upper classes of Boston society, were dead. Dead and mutilated to the point that all she could give their parents were a few cracked and charred teeth.

Fuck.

Taking a deep breath, she held it and counted to ten before letting it back out.

"It's alright, Diederick," she said, even though it wasn't, "it is not your fault. It's mine."

That was the truth. Damn it, she had seen what had been happening. They had thought that her insults and pushing of them during their lessons had been her showing scorn, not concern. If she had been just a little softer, been a little freer with her praise, then maybe the boys wouldn't have felt that they had to do something stupid to get her attention. Maybe they would still be alive, and their wouldn't be Templar Hunter Squads out on every corner of the city, killing anyone associated with the Assassins. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Blinking misty eyes, she saw that the Dutch Assassin was looking at her with concern. She fluttered her hand at him as she got herself under control, blinking rapidly.

Clearing her throat, she folded her hands in front of her and sat up straight.

"There's nothing we can do now, anyway," she said, focusing on keeping her voice steady. "All we can do is keep from being pushed out of the city entirely and try to replace them." Picking up a sheet of paper, she almost immediately put it back down. Reports on lost Assassins, letters from other cities and records of nothing but monetary losses littered the surface in front of her, pounding her failure into her head like a carpenter with nails. Her hands fluttered uselessly across her desk, looking for something to do.

"Do we have any other possible recruits that could take the boys' place?" she asked.

Looking up, she saw that Diederick was looking at her with concern.

"Mejuffrouw Scott," he said, "it is alright to take time to mourn their death."

His voice was gentle. It was not the sort of tone that she deserved. Pressing her lips together, she forced herself to still her hands, pressing them palm down onto her leather-covered desk.

"Diederick," she said, injecting a warning tone into her voice, "if you do not have anything to add, I'm afraid that I must ask you to leave."

"Mejuffrouw Scott - "

"Do you or do you not have anything more to add that will help me come up with a plan to keep the Assassins in Boston, Diederick?"

The man flinched back from her tone.

"No, Mejuffrouw Scott."

"Then it would perhaps be best if you returned to bed so that you may better convalesce," she said, making her tone as icy as when she was back in London and chasing off a particularly obtuse suitor. "We cannot afford to lose anyone these days."

Picking up a random piece of paper from in front of her, she began to pretend to study it, trying to make her dismissal as clear as possible. She didn't want anyone's sympathy.

This mess was her own damn fault, and she wouldn't run away from that.

Keeping her eyes focused on the paper, she heard Diederick sigh quietly and stand up, the chair scraping across the varnished wood. His heavy, unsteady steps seemed too loud in the silence of the study, every thud beating a tattoo along her spine. The door swung shut, and finally, since the first moment that the teeth had been spilled onto her desk, Jenny let her tears fall.

God damn James Taylor. God damn him to hell.

Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she let a small, annoyed grunt out through her lips. What had the man done to turn her little brother into this? When she had left with her husband to take over the Caribbean branch of her father's business, Haytham had been thirteen, small and shy and terribly pleased and excited in his quietly understated way about being taught by another member of the Assassin Brotherhood. Their father had taught them together about swordplay and hand to hand fighting. How to climb and jump and fall without injuring themselves. Haytham's teacher, Taylor, was to bring those skills together and tie them together into a whole. He had been well respected within the Brotherhood, both for his devotion to the Assassins and his talent for killing Templars.

And at first, Haytham's letters to her had reflected a happy student-teacher relationship. He had gushed about how much he was learning about the world, about how he was going to become the best Assassin the English Brotherhood had ever seen, just like Ezio Auditore and Altair ibn L'Ahad. Eventually the letters had changed, though. Haytham had stopped talking about how great an Assassin he was going to be. Disturbing allusions to strange events, only a sentence or two long and said offhandedly, had begun to take up the bulk of the letters that she recieved. It hadn't been obvious at the time, but looking back, Jenny could tell that that had been when he had started to question the Brotherhood. Nothing he had written about was quite wrong or against the rules that they worked within. The stories were simply hints of brutality, of a deep streak of violence and threats to cover up any evidence of wrongdoing. Of making her brother an accessory to things that would have made Altair spin in his grave.

Of things that disturbed her to the point of burying her head in the sand. Like a fool, she had convinced herself that she had been reading too much into her brother's letters. That he was just complaining, as young men did, of hard work. She hadn't wanted such filth to taint her happiness with her new husband.

And then the letters had stopped altogether, and she had fooled herself into thinking things had been resolved, a lie that she was only able to keep up until the news of the English Templars' newest Assassin Hunter had reached her. Of who his first victim was.

And then the whole sorry story of the rotten demon wearing James Taylor's skin had come out. His violence. His assaults on his brothers and sisters. His breaking of the Creed. And Jenny had suddenly understood what Haytham had been talking about. What he had been asking about. What he had begged for help with.

Why he had gone to the Templars.

And now, here they were. Trying to kill each other. Attacking those that surrounded each other. All because of James Taylor and his madness.

God damn him indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that 's it for this story! Stay tuned for the sequel, to be up hopefully before the end of the month!


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